


North Star

by pettiot



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst, Blindness, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, lie back and think of the Empire, slash trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-24
Updated: 2008-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 102,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Set in Archades, an alternate universe tale where Ffamran never ran away to become Balthier.Following canon events, Basch assumes his dead brother's role and meets a young, aristocratic and blind Ffamran Mid Bunansa.
Relationships: Balthier/Basch, Ffamran/Basch
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Each time Zargabaath spoke, it was with that direct courtesy that Basch still struggled to absorb as Archadian manner; politeness that seemed more arrogance than any other.

"Tis unfortunate that your best years were so wasted on warfare when your talents would seem better directed elsewhere; nevertheless, you will have to step out of this safety soon. We have done what we may to mask your knowledge, and there is nothing that can be worn to sufficiently mask your voice."

Those first few days in Archades, Zargabaath set himself to break Basch of every ignorance Dalmascan ease had instilled in him, through that dedicated application of simulated conversations and whip-sharp challenges. This forced verbosity, remembrance, _naming_ , had Basch ache for the simplicity of a sword and a skull to target. The perfumed rooms, pale stone walls layered with rugs and oilworks, proved only another uncomfortable prison somewhat more spacious than his last, and somewhat better smelling than the next he would have to wear, near daily.

His supposed injuries provided sufficient to divert those most persistent of the bureaus' inquiries through those days of study, both the Ninth and those in direct opposition. Larsa's need – the Empire's need – had not been as easy to divert. The Solidor throne demanded continuity, however much a ploy, but Archadian nobility thrived on even the slightest scent of scandal. Each day Basch stayed pent, learning, memorizing, striving for years of accomplishment in days, the whispers grew louder; Larsa grew near impatient, and that trait Basch had not thought to see in the young man for a good few years yet.

"Inhaling fire magick could have scarred my brother's- _my_ throat," Basch began, but this was an old argument. Zargabaath dismissed it again with barely a shift of his shoulders, the weight of his armour suddenly forward, and ominous.

A strange puppetry, this, that Basch strove to learn: to manipulate his armour with the least conspicuous effort internally. With the puppetmaster inside the puppet, and the weight and stink of his brother's last hours grimed into the metal's padding, this proved more difficult than battle in the lighter full plate of Dalmasca's cavalry. He had intended to strip the suit of anything derived from life that still bore traces of his brother's ghost, leather buckles, the woven padding, but time and Zargabaath did not allow it. This suit was not a comfortable place to hide.

Thus it was that Basch stood before Larsa's selection of the court of Archadia, still stinking of his brother, sweat prickling on his scalp as each sleek politeness threatened with poison-tipped words. Small wonder the Magisters wore solid steel, even as these once-merchants bloated with aristocracy wore layered lace on satin. Zargabaath stood at his shoulder as they circulated, a slow clockwise motion through these social eddies, his soft voice prompting or sergeant's shout interrupting as necessary. Larsa likewise presented before them with straight shoulders and an ease that belied the preparations behind his move for the throne; each pleasantry he delivered, a greeting to an associate, a remark on the health of a close relative, was a clear warning to each noble, _I know more of you than you of me_. Basch let his thoughts stray across the line of Larsa's shoulders in contemplation of the man Larsa would one day become; thus he saw the instant Larsa suddenly flinched, stiffened. Beside him, Zargabaath hissed.

"I will admit," came the drawl, a layered lace as refined as that at the throat of the young man who spoke, "I was somewhat perturbed you saw fit to keep the matter of your continued survival from me, Gabranth. I very near had the staff deliver flowers to your desk, not knowing, of course, that you would ever consider dying anywhere but there."

Basch turned stiffly, and assessed as well as he could through the limited vision of his brother's visor, hunting for insignia to place the family. The man was young, younger than Vayne had been and thus unlikely to be of his coterie, but the slight tilt of his chin was an arrogant one, forward and to the side. His eyes wandered with a near insulting distraction, one hand held slightly out as though expectant, fingertips to the floor. The man did not smile, though his lips quirked; his hair was cropped soldier-short when all other young men Basch had encountered still wore theirs long in imitation of Vayne. His garb, but for that touch of lace at throat and wrists, was conspicuously plain for attendance in a Solidor's court, mere white tucked linen and black leather. He wore not a trace of jewelry or weaponry, and it was only Gabranth's horned helm that gave Basch any height over the man.

"Lord Bunansa," Larsa said, that Basch's over-full mind went blank with shock, "it is my continued pleasure to inform you that Justice's most beloved servant Gabranth is indeed still alive and well, as I did so take the time to inform you, _in person_ , for every day of his convalescence."

"However," Zargabaath inserted, fluid, "please do accept our condolences on the most recent death of your father. Have you encountered any troubles with your assumption of his responsibilities?"

Basch hesitated the release of a slow breath. He had killed this man's father, Cidolphus, run mad with the Mist and mania; he had killed this man's father, and he could not remember this man's name. Zargabaath had warned him of the necessity to negotiate with the Bunansa head of house – but he had not expected it so soon. The Bunansa house possessed the economy in Archades and had well-threaded fingers in the pulse of every nation's currency. Every airship that flew owed a percentage to the Bunansa shipyard for continued clarity of their navigational stones, even those illegal vessels under a pirate's flag. Larsa needed this young man; Basch had killed his father. This should not be a concern, Zargabaath stated. After all, had not Basch also killed Larsa's brother?

"Did you expect I should have difficulties, Zargabaath?" the young lord snapped, his features suddenly a snarl. That expression was sleeked smooth with a smile so swift that Basch wondered if he had mistaken it. His eyes flicked up, baring a hazed hazel, unfocused and sinking to follow the line of that long nose. Basch could scent neither wine nor smoke to justify that distraction. Considering the heaving heat of his brother's armour, perhaps his senses were rendered somewhat suspect.

"Zargabaath's concern is merely for the role thrust upon you so abruptly, Ffamran." Larsa hesitated, then stepped forward. His gloved fingertips touched the bare skin of Ffamran's half-outstretched hand, but the young man did not flinch or otherwise acknowledge the touch. "Sons of their father's later years often find these roles an unexpected burden."

"As you have?" Ffamran said, that a smile flickered and vanished, quicksilver. "Your concerns for the state of my wellbeing do you justice, considering how your own concern for your similar, sudden burdens for the state must weigh you immensely; I assure you all, I manage my father's responsibilities quite well. Or should I say: what trifling portions of that inheritance left to me after little Larsa's lawyers claimed their fair share in the name of Empire."

"You will not have Draklor," Larsa said. "That is a political matter for the subject of investigation, Lord Ffamran; all your other holdings have been left to your own jurisdiction, untouched. Presently."

"As untouched as your throne, I hope you note. Presently."

Even Basch heard the warning in Ffamran's languid voice.

Zargabaath stepped back, heavy heel a hard sound on the marble. Ffamran's head whipped around, his eyes wider, still vague. His hand wavered in the air somewhere between them.

"Yet Gabranth still keeps himself so silent on these weighty matters," Ffamran said. "This last year as my closest companion in our dearly departed Vayne Solidor's circles, sir; also your long friendship with my father – your silence does wound, deeply. Do I not deserve your condolences lavished from your own lips? The old man would also appreciate such to send him on his way."

"Gabranth was present when your father died so honourably in that battle," Zargabaath said, before Basch could speak. "Perhaps such memories disturb him; tis not good to dwell on such."

"They assuredly disturb me," Ffamran said, "but of course you are right, as always, Zargabaath, to think of others first and foremost: fates forbid Gabranth find his delicate stomach unsettled by being forced to chew on such platitudes."

"I am sorry—" Basch spoke sharper than he had intended for it seemed only speed and bluntness would allow him voice in this company. "I am…you have my sympathies, my lord."

Ffamran's head tilted, chin cocked towards the sound. His mobile features stilled, a sudden blankness.

"And who," the young man said, his outstretched fingers curling closed, his politeness chill where his sarcasm had warmed, "might you be?"

Larsa's mouth worked, speechless for once, and Zargabaath sighed.

Of a sudden, Basch realized Ffamran was blind.

.

  



	2. Chapter 2

_One day_ , Cid told his eldest son, crown to crown when they ceased with their mock-battles, blunted blades to their sides, _you'll be greater than I._

Ffamran heard, possibly agreed as much as a youth could agree with such a thing about his eldest brother and his always hero; Aarron who wore his hair longer than a maiden, blonde like a god, always laughing like one. Later contemplation had Ffamran consider that Aarron, with the will and wit to glove the steel of his intelligence where Cid did not, must seem quite a palatable young heir to the Bunansa fortune for presentation to Archades' nobility, a fiend on the field and equally deft on the ballroom dance floor. Gramis's eldest son had thought so also, to lavish such affections on Aarron that when the eldest Solidor fell to accusations of treason, Aarron had fallen first, and so willingly Cid could not weep for him.

_One day,_ Cid told his middle son, shoulder to shoulder with him over their latest complexity of married metal and mist, _you'll change the face of Ivalice._

Ellory could have done so, Ffamran thought; Ellory saw logic and patterns where men told tales of myths and legends. Ellory saw mist and energy combining with articulated patterns of social dissonance where others suggested the influence of gods and fates alike; his dinnertime conversations with Cid had proved by far some of the most entertaining theatre Ffamran had ever seen, before. The worst of Ellory's death, Cid said to his youngest son, and not even bitterly this time, was that it was with a sword of a treacherous Solidor in his throat, to cut off all that articulation. Perhaps if Ellory could have spoken his defense at the last, Ffamran thought, he could have thought up a denial of that heretical accusation. Ellory could have explained away the very whirl of the stars in the sky.

_One day,_ Cid told his youngest son, when he took the time to glance up from his texts, _you'll find out what you want._

Third sons had it the best in Archades if one kept his humour sanguine, as Ffamran was want to do. The languor of luxury, the freedom of choice – it wasn't that Cid didn't think him capable. Ffamran knew that, he knew that. Ffamran had the best of it: both before and after his brothers had died, he had the freedom to decide what he truly wanted.

Still, his father's disinterest – burned –

Not the Akademy, Ffamran decided after half a year bored his wit into wandering. Archery and marksmanship kept him entertained for a while, but his private tutors taught better and faster; war had never enticed him, and legality felt like a cage built of words and made of lateral process a rampant hypocrisy. His father's science likewise bored him with its four bounding walls; Ffamran found himself missing sight of the sky.

He traveled, west for the lack of any other direction, to watch the sunset. Halfway across the continent he encountered voluntarily expatriate Archadians and moogles, alike setting their backs to repairing a ruined, domed tower lost in the heart of wilderness. A brief conversation established they were astronomers in search of a clear view of the sky; as their frequent use of calibration and focus-based magicks to keep their equipment's precision drew the local wildlife in great numbers, Ffamran found himself staying to practice his marksmanship on the multiplicity of eyes of malboro kings.

The long nights were cold enough that they shared and swapped blankets at will, waiting for the latest exposure to develop over the course of six hours – conversation laced with mulled wine, the sole vigilance necessary was an occasional recalibration, each twenty minutes, once the stars had shifted. In lax moments between task and tasking, discussion of the sky and stars entertained Ffamran enough that on a whim he joined those brisk-voiced Archadian astronomers in their studies, stone-hopping with them across the face of Ivalice to measure infinitesimal changes in each star's position. When contemplating why he wanted to pursue such an old man's profession, Ffamran decided it was all about position and place. So much of his father's science looked inward: what better thing than to look outwards, to know the smallness of one's place in the great expanse of the cosmos?

He stayed long enough that he lost all his tan and learned to map incremental paths of astrological constellations across the sky. He learned to navigate both gun and self by starlight and stonelight so much so that he started to ache for sight of a sunset instead of a dawn seen from the wrong side.

He woke to watch the sunset, and stayed to watch the migration of localized zu, scattered black curves across the sky both chaos and order in one, an achingly swift whirl and curl of wing and tendon too fast to map, to quick to comprehend, only there for him to _appreciate_ , not analyse. A dance for survival against the shift of the seasons, so rapid; it was then that Ffamran realized he would never live forever – he would never see more than the barest of progress in their calculations, of each star, named, of each pinpoint of light, mapped. There was a reason why astronomy was an old man's profession; and those old men had, truly, been as young as he one forgotten day.

He returned home. Ffamran had ample facility with numbers; after near a month of concocting highly complex methods of indulging his decadence, well on display in order to avoid suddenly numerous marriage offers – through all of which his father did not deign to offer an nay or aye or even a 'beware' – Ffamran turned to their family business out of sheer boredom. It was more a path for a third son to take, a path he might have taken had his brothers lived. Shipping, paths, routes, makes and models, everything that ever flew on the wings of magic owed somewhat back to the Bunansa shipyard. Directly resultant of his interests there, Ffamran watched as Bahamut's shell grew under Vayne's delicate manipulation of senatorial budget; conversations with the moogle engineers in the hangar led him to contemplate the fallibilities of contemporary models of glossair rings and their lack of lateral shift tolerance.

It happened when he was curled in the engine bay of his father's pet prototype, a sleek younger sister to Bahamut's bulk. He had no knowledge of whether it was his own fallibility or just fate; he should have gone east when he first left home, not west; he should have watched a dawn, not a sunset; he should have been born first instead of third, second instead of last.

He had his shirtsleeves rolled up around his elbows, his hands thrust deep into the sparking metal, all live so he could feel the flow of the Mist against his fingertips. Something hot flowered agony on the inside of his elbow; he flinched and hit a coruscant shaft; the moogle below shrieked a wild warning just as Ffamran heard something metallic shatter wild, hungry pain across his palms; and then whiteness ate his eyes.

When he woke, his face and arms were as tight as sunburn or a high-level curaga, but free, easy to move, _whole_ , and at that, his nameless fear calmed. He rubbed his eyes; he could hear someone stirring in the room. Ffamran asked them to dim the lights. It was so bright he could see only that endless, aching white.

Cid wept, and mourned as though Ffamran had died; for a time, his father's fists tight in his hair, Cid's rough cheek on his and his father's salt wet across his lips, he wondered if he had died, if his free motion was just a daydream. Perhaps this was a prison of his speechless corpse his father wept over, for Cid did not seem to hear any word of solace Ffamran spoke. _Cursed_ , Cid cried, _cursed, cursed by the gods to live like this, everyone to die, all three of you; damn your curse, gods damn you; I will not stand by for this, for you to take him as well-_

In his father's absence, it took Ffamran near a year to learn to walk without fear; light stole his certainty as well as the stars and sunset alike. Slowness assisted, as did thin-soled boots, each step a texture to lay paths in memory if not in sight. He disdained a cane, a dog, disdained the caretaker that would guide him by the elbow, and instead kept only to places he knew. He tried, but he couldn't stop the habit that had his hand before him, always; a preemptive warning of potential collision. Distrusting his old companions and the house staff's conversations of the latest fashions – _and how_ , he would protest when his latest suspect visitor waxed prophetic about the next greatest trend that should catch his eye, _is this to catch my eye when I have none?_ – he kept himself in the linen and leather he had worn during his tenure with the astrologers, for at least he knew what he looked like in that. He still suspected the tailors of dressing him in colours of high obscenity when he ordered a new set of shirts made, but it was necessary, for his shoulders outgrew his old shirts within six months.

He wondered why he saw white when he had always thought of blindness as black. After a time, after he broke himself of that habit of shaking his head every few minutes as though this blindness were a marlboro's slick sneeze he could dislodge, he wondered if perhaps he _did_ see only blackness. Perhaps he had forgotten what black and white once looked like.

When he woke one morning to run his hand across his face, he recognized from the unfamiliarity of that rough-fuzzed feel that firstly, he had not touched his face in a very long time, and secondly, that he needed to find someone he trusted enough to shave him, for his father hadn't returned.

He was sixteen in a week, and he didn't cry – but gods, his eyes burned for weeks after that.

.

  



	3. Chapter 3

Ffamran's skill at navigation spoke either of incredible grace or astounding patience – or, Basch realized, insufferable pride.

The way he walked made a simplicity of a path into a damned processional through the halls of the Solidor manse. Each step planted a booted foot squarely, unflinchingly, a roll from heel to balls and up, clean of any cloying edge of unrolled rug; every movement looked as practiced as a dance, all balance and tension. Several times Basch stopped himself from darting forward to grab the man's elbow to steer him around the corners of Archadian clutter, status engraved in ebony and ivory armoires, but Ffamran seemed to possess an unerring instinct for avoiding the edges, his fingertips extended bare half a hand before him, his head inclined like a whiskered cat.

He scuffed the leg of a wayward chair, only once. Larsa winced, silent, but Ffamran laughed, and it was only the tilt of his neck that held any brittleness for the sound was as light as air. Basch wondered that Larsa seemed willing to weigh the Empire's future on the slow pride of a blind man, but then, Basch had not quite set his head around the concept of a single man owning the heart of every airship, be they afloat or drowned.

Larsa's short leg and Ffamran's slow step measured in equal pace, but Basch felt the itch to move ahead of them, to grab the young lord's elbow and hustle him ahead; those months of running point for Ashelia's small army had this pace seem like a slow torture. He watched the rhythm of Ffamran's muscle instead, the ripple through his thighs as he caught his balance, every step on the edge of a precipice, the steady rock of hips contrary to the twist of his shoulders.

"There's a chair in your righthand corner, near six paces ahead," Zargabaath said, gruff, as he closed the solar door behind them.

"Five," Basch said, for Ffamran's leg had a length that Zargabaath in his armor could not anticipate.

Ffamran's step hitched when Basch spoke, midway between the third and the fourth pace. Basch watched as the young lord very deliberately took his sixth step, only to crack his right shin across the carved forward edge of the chaise. Basch winced; the young man did not pause to feel where the chair sat, nor how low it lay. Instead, his shin against the wood, he turned and sat, slowly, but without hesitation.

Larsa let out a breath before finding his own seat; Basch had not realized he had been holding his own until it near exploded out. Ffamran's face curled at that, near-disgust, unbound by any concern of what an onlooker would see. There must be some wit there despite his excusable lack of control; he had survived as Cidolphus' heir in a court where what masks one chose to wear meant more than a true expression.

"There is some thrice-aged spirit in the bureau at the door," Zargabaath said, heavily. "Indulge this pretence of hospitality, Basch, if you will—"

"Basch?" Ffamran said. "Basch fon Ronsenberg, the kingslayer. Intriguing. Where is Gabranth?"

Basch doffed his helm before he poured the drinks; he realized he had done four where Larsa surely should not take such a strong distillation. Basch drank that fourth before he turned to distribute the other three.

"Buried in Nalbina," Basch said, as he held the half-full glass to Ffamran. He moved to put it directly in Ffamran's waiting hand. There were old scars across the knuckles, the chip and flay of fighting, those embedded dirt scars from work with hot metal and searing fiend flesh, but the nails were perfect, the palms uncalloused. A fighter, Basch realized, now locked in a nobleman's halflife.

Ffamran swallowed the glass worth in a single gulp, hard. His lids were lowered, lashes against his cheeks; apart from that, his voice did not show any sign of grief or rage. "Under a gravestone that names him Basch fon Ronsenberg, no doubt."

"Yes," Zargabaath said. "Vayne spun a web of intrigue that will take us time to unravel. You cannot frustrate our efforts with your temperamental urges, Ffamran; the Solidor name needs your support, lest the Empire crumble."

"Temperamental?" Ffamran asked, hollow with amusement. "You truly know how to flatter a man into obedience, Zargabaath. Is that how you got yon kingslayer to behave, flattering his marksmanship? Or it is more that he'll only strike out if there's actual _royalty_ present?"

"I will not flatter you," Zargabaath said, "for you reject all such false pity, do you not?"

"Ffamran," Larsa interjected, even as the young lord opened his mouth to respond, "these games amuse no one but yourself. Your fortune is tied to Solidor with far more security now than even when your father kept my brother's close company – and this was all at your own insistence, once you took the governance of your holdings into hand. You have never had designs on the throne, nor any ambition beyond that of your own independence. Yet you threaten me, you refuse all invitations to every calling of caucus thus far when you know your vote is the decider, and now you arrive to disrupt tonight's gathering entirely uninvited, to _threaten_ me – and why?"

Basch saw Ffamran's hand tighten around his glass. Empty – that Basch moved swift enough to refill it. Ffamran's head turned slightly at the clink of glass on glass, a bare nod of thanks.

"Blame it on boredom," he said, and drank. "Or, as Zargabaath would insist, my _temperamental_ nature."

"Not so wise a reasoning," Basch said, near unwillingly, into that silence. "You would topple the stability of an empire for a whim."

"Hark," Ffamran said, "at the kingslayer, verily, for surely he speaks from experience. As well as toppling Dalmasca and near free-flying Bhujerba with her – for wisdom, I presume, Basch, considering your lamentation of whim as unworthy – tell me, did you also kill Noah? – and for whim or wisdom?"

"—you knew his name."

"Of course I knew," Ffamran said, "for what else should I call him when he had me bent with his pleasure? He was not so fond of the nickname 'beloved'."

At that, Larsa shifted so his velvet crushed against the chair's cushion audibly, Zargabaath likewise that his armor sang. Ffamran laughed into the silence, spiteful.

"Come now, gents," he said, free hand waving, voice light and laughing, "spare me your derision, my own is substantial enough. This is Tsenoble's prime tidbit of gossip. The sole bloodline heir to a fortune fit to cripple nations, still unmarried at the ripe age of twenty two, and – surely a gift from the gods – _blinded_ , so he can't even look on the face of what monstrous example of female flesh Tsenoble's matrons would foist on him – and even when faced with that undeniably _ghastly_ prospect, you profess surprise that I would turn to a flesh more familiar than that – "

"Of course _everyone_ knew," Zargabaath said, "but you're old enough to not attack like a thrice-kicked dog just because we've buried your favorite bone—"

"Noah was my brother," Basch interrupted, and the roughness of his voice surprised him. "I—understand your suffering—"

"You do not," Ffamran said, "but the sentiment is appreciated. Your brother, you say? Perhaps I begin to understand Vayne's web from the tatters you present me with. This may also explain your presence here, somewhat. Aside from that ridiculous growl you call your voice, do you happen to resemble your brother, sir?"

"Twinned," Zargabaath said, when Basch's voice failed him.

"Aha." Ffamran's smile lingered this time, affectionate; he directed it somewhere into absent space. "Vayne was rather thorough, was he not?"

"Solidors always are," Larsa said. "We do not like wild cards."

"Well," Ffamran said, as he rose – Basch lunged to catch the glass as Ffamran released it, uncaring for the inevitable shatter, "you will not like me very much then, Larsa. A pity. I rather like you, and I do not have many friends."

He made his way across the floor, graceful, ungracious, yet when he reached the door he paused –

"Your left," Basch said, and did not know why he spoke –

\- and Ffamran reached out his left hand, as though there had been no hesitation, to grasp the door handle.

"I should quite like to get to know you," he said, "Basch fon Ronsenberg. I've heard such tales of you, and I know your face. Come to my townhouse, should your lord see fit to release you for enough time to permit recreation. Vayne was notoriously close with his Gabranth, perhaps Larsa will follow the same trend."

"I haven't given you leave to go, Ffamran," Larsa said.

"You haven't the right," Ffamran said, cheerfully, "my little not-quite Emperor."

When the door clicked closed in his wake, Basch kept a count of eight – no, longer, considering Ffamran's pace - _twenty_ , before he moved to speak.

"Arrogance," Zargabaath said, before Basch could articulate his concern. "And we need him."

"Competence," Larsa said, and sounded achingly young, "and he owns our currency. He knows it, the-"

"Shall I go to guide him to a car?" Basch asked. "He's alone."

"He prefers it that way," Zargabaath said absently. "Let him bruise his shins and hope he wanders off the edge of a skybridge; as he vows, what wounds do not kill him will merely convince him further of his immortality. You'll no doubt be more than replete with the dubious joys of his company fore the week is out."

"I—" Basch turned to Larsa. "Wait, my lord, you can't –"

"I am sorry, Basch," Larsa said, eyes sincere and utterly unrepentant. "Whether such things are to your tastes or not, you must find a way to keep him happy."

"Happy?" Zargabaath said. "Come, Larsa, you know Ffamran better than such words imply."

"Well," the last Solidor said, helplessly, "at the very least, keep him _content._ "

"And strive to ameliorate his boredom," Zargabaath added. "A bored Bunansa is a dangerous beast to keep close to one's heart, and even more dangerous if he sits close to the heart of one's enemies. He is the last clear heir; if he dies or departs—chaos, Basch. Economic chaos."

Basch bowed, and wondered why he had ever decided to come in from the rain. Even running point for Ashelia, her bitter sniping with the Rozarrian runaway pirate a forever irritation at his heels, at least a sword set against Vayne felt more honest in his palm than all of this, the taste of a serpent's blood shattering across his lips. To discover – his _brother_ —

His brother's duty. Basch had accepted it.

"As you wish, my lord."

"Thank you, Basch. This is appreciated. Please take your leave and your ease; I will not return to the gathering tonight. I shall tender my apologies on the morrow, and let the pot stew over what I could find in a night's worth of discussion with our fickle Lord Bunansa."

The tension eased, that Larsa's unnatural calm settled into his more contemplative mode. Zargabaath drew Basch out of the room with him with a mere nod of his head; Basch trailed in his wake.

"If you need it," Zargabaath said as they paced down the hall, "I can arrange you a – an instructor—"

Basch balked from considering that, for a sacrosanct moment. "Do you know Ffamran well?"

"Since his birth. He was the brightest of them all, Cidolphus's sons; he witnessed his mother and brothers die, and when he lost his sight at fifteen, his father buried himself in his studies. There is a running gag of the Bunansa curse - that death or insanity shall claim them all. That Ffamran…proved so inclined becomes yet another point of vile debate. All paths must seem black to such a limited scope as his. He does not trust, anyone."

"And when Ffamran showed an interest in Noah, did you also provide my brother with – an instructor?"

Zargabaath did not meet Basch's eyes, but readjusted his grip on the helm under his arm. "Given some time, we will make quite a useful tool of you yet. Yes, though he arranged one himself."

"As you will, Zargabaath. I will be guided by you in this." Basch shook his head. Perhaps he downed one too many glasses of Zargabaath's thrice-aged spirit, for he should not be finding this situation even distantly droll. "My months with Ashelia did not render me overly fond of coddling these high-strung children."

"And yet in the hands of these highstrung children lies the hope for any future that will render our lives purposeful, not chaff on the wind." Zargabaath nodded, once, an approbation. "It is appreciated, Basch. In Noah's reports he did mention much of this duty did not prove as noisome as Ffamran's initial acerbia would have you believe."

Basch noted that 'Noah's reports' had not yet been mentioned; perhaps this would be all the instruction Zargabaath would provide, notwithstanding the other. "Your appreciation is appreciated."

.

  



	4. Chapter 4

It was easier to read his brother's words than Basch had thought it would be; Noah wrote with a refined, practiced detachment that kept the words just as they were, characters inked in black and bold. The cataloguing of his encounters with Ffamran were brief, and seemed far subsumed by near-photographic recording of his conversations with Cidolphus. Gramis and Vayne had both dismissed the thought that Ffamran would inherit, so devoutly disabled, dismissed that Cid would allow his holdings to fall into his last son's hands.

It was through those conversations with the father that Noah had first re-encountered the son, four years after the mishap that stole Ffamran's sight. The young man, reclusive after that maiming, nevertheless kept attendance when his father was unavailable. Noah recorded thus:

_Though sixteen, he remains unmarried and otherwise refuses to provide an heir. Cidolphus will not acknowledge Ffamran's name should either it or the youth be in his presence, yet also will not name another heir. I, and other instructors that served in the Akademy through Ffamran's short tenure there, do recall the youth's partiality – it would be a preferable ease to ingratiate another young man, perhaps one with a scientific bent also, as Ffamran's companion and minder. Thus this post will serve as watch over both the father and the son. Two beasts taken, and with only one spell._

Beneath it, that Basch felt almost sorry for the inevitability of Ffamran's fall, was written in a different hand and red ink a prodigious list of names of evidently suitable young men in service with Solidor's trusted home guard, and a twice-underscored: _See to it._

It was less easy for Basch to set aside his brother's armour – sent at last to the armourers for much needed repairs and replacements - for in its place he wore silk and excess scent, white musk oiling his throat, his wrists, even his knees, that the perfume veiled him as he moved. Too long in the bathhouse had failed to soften the calluses across his palms; Basch bore the salonist's complaints of short hair and sun-strained skin, most stoically, for regardless of what concoction they set him to soak in, nothing could soften the sinew, the dry tan, the still-raw edges of scars from these last months of battle. He was a soldier, not a man of leisure.

Regardless of how close the shave, Basch still felt the rasp of stubble against his knuckles scarce an hour after. A stranger stared back at him when he looked in the mirror, not even Noah's face therein. But then – perhaps this _had_ been Noah's face, overgroomed, overtired, for in the score of years since they had parted, Basch had only seen Noah at the last, moments away from death, and that was no fair judge of how the man had chosen to spend his life.

Twenty _years_ since Basch had acted as a brother, near as long as Ffamran was old. Despite Noah's words, it still seemed strange to imagine his brother living this life, a facade too well-kept for a prisoner, too well-groomed for a soldier, too crude for a nobleman. Basch's lip quirked, and neatened brows arched correspondingly but for where his scar held stiff.

"Allow me this last," said the – instructor – Zargabaath had provided, hands already raised, rouge and a rabbit's tail brush at the ready. "Your inexperience at the application here will be even more telling."

Even near a week past, the youth's neck still bore the, the marks, small bruises, bites, if less livid than they had been; Basch looked away, his throat tight. "The man's blind," he said, roughly. "He would have small care for the pallor of my face."

The – _whore_ —Basch should name him, unflinchingly – made a sound of disgust. "It's the principle of the thing," he said, that Basch bit back his comment on Archadian hypocrisies. "It's a mask, milord Gabranth. Your rather fetching costuming could scarce be complete without this last—"

"Leave it be," Basch said, and for a wonder, the whore desisted here when he had not - "Zargabaath has spoken with you?"

"Aye, quite generously so. You'll not find word of this on the street, at the least, not from my lips. All other sources of rumour are yours to defend against."

"Then my thanks for your assistance, and please feel free to take your leave."

By preference Basch would have walked; he had not been to Tsenoble's residential district but in vehicular passing, and the opportunity to learn more of Archades' high paths was not to be disdained. The distance did not daunt him, not with the miles behind him already. Noah's over-ornamented apartment overlooked the Ministry, a flight of graceful stairs the only connection to the street; Basch could have cut across two parks and three plazas, and caught a single ferry to cross the vertical chasm between a public servant's world and Tsenoble's grand strand.

It would be wise not to walk, though; lateness notwithstanding, he would have worked up a sweat to spoil both his preparations and his silks.

The cab drive from his door ate the distance between Ministry and mansion far too swiftly. Basch sat firmly in the centre of the seat, eyes ahead rather than to the sides. Archades' ignorance of heights and falls still filled him with vertigo. Tsenoble's residential precinct was dense, yet luxurious; townhouses rendered narrow by a mistaken tax law that set land rates based on width of property rather than length. Mythril fences were custom-wrought, with leaves and lavishness, the mere gates of which were worth more than a year's retainer. Archades was ruled by merchants grown too fat for the title; nobility here was bought, not blooded.

Basch could not help but note that all that mythril luxury would have outfitted three times the Archadian army, with far better arms than they wore at present; but his role here was not a military one, and such information worthless.

At this altitude, the air chilled him once outside the cab. The lack of exertion notwithstanding, Basch's pulse raced as though berserk'd yet with an unfortunate clarity of mind. The townhouse's front gate was unlocked, so he progressed; at the substantial front door, the notably expressionless housekeeper informed him that Lord Bunansa was taking a walk in the gardens.

"The gardens," Basch repeated, considering the narrowness of the townhouse's frontage, the neat-trimmed camellias and grey stone paths he had wound his way past. "Shall I join him?"

But instead of turning him, the housekeeper led Basch through to the back of the townhouse. The floors were conspicuously smooth, pale wood white with age; the art and artifice of other Archadian households absent. There were no rugs to foul footing here, no armoires to bruise a shin or elbow, the only decoration that of the texture of the sliding screens, filigreed dragon's bone so refined it resembled lace. When the matron indicated, Basch slid open the last set of screens, and the dusk's chill breeze swept up into the house. He inhaled, the air heavy with rosemary, jasmine, pine—

Basch stopped, looked, and remembered only to exhale when his eyes near watered.

"Tis rather beautiful, is it not?" the matron said, wistfully. "Lord Ffamran has quite a designer's vision."

"But the size—" Basch turned, glanced back into the house. "This is impossible—"

"Lord Ffamran did not see fit to relocate to one of his country houses. He chose instead to bring the countryside here; he purchased the land off his neighbors and consolidated it into these gardens."

Basch's next breath weighed his lungs, the chill bite and heavy scent incongruous so paired. More than jasmine. Lilac, lilies, even lavender.

"Down—" the matron pointed, "follow the ridge, then listen for the sounds of the dogs."

It was well then that Basch hadn't walked the distance to the townhouse, for the path's descent into the – landscape, Basch named it, not _garden_ \- had him break a sweat regardless. Navigating across a path more uneven rock than grass kept him as focused as he had been on Ashelia's watch, warmed him enough that the proximity of Archades' chill evening demands seemed a lifetime away. He could hear the dogs in the distance, barking happily; he turned towards the sound and kept his pace back from a jog. The landscape, heady enough with scent that it felt like vertigo, seemed to beg for that speed. He caught himself reaching for a sword not there, for the terrain looked to hide a multitude of serpents.

The dogs found him first, belling generously, circling, bare teeth threatening enough that Basch stopped under a fledgling willow, waited, heard Ffamran's call not so far distant; when the young man pushed his way through the willow's weep, Basch spoke –

"My lord—"

"Gabranth," Ffamran said, easily. "I had hoped you would come." He spun the staff he carried, evidently to feel his way, and sheathed it along his spine. The harness held his shirt tight against his frame; the dirt that stained those lace cuffs was incongruous. "Or is your preference for Noah?"

Basch stepped forward, caught the man's right wrist in a firm grasp before the soldier's clasp occurred to him as vastly unsuited to the setting. Surprise flickered across refined features, to settle in an expression almost pleased, and Ffamran's hand closed on Basch's own wrist.

"Basch, if you will, my lord. Gabranth outside of these – grounds."

"Then please – Ffamran – if _you_ will."

"It will be my pleasure."

At his own words, a platitude incongruous only for the circumstance, Basch flushed enough that any rouge would have proved well overdone. Ffamran's hand tightened on his wrist, drew him, closer, slightly, a pull towards that wry smile – but the circling of the dogs around them, between them, jostled them apart. Basch released his grip, stepped back; Ffamran snapped a sharp word, steadied himself on his heels, rocking. The dogs pushed against his legs, skulls and soft ears up against Ffamran's outstretched hand, grey bodies weaving. But for one that eyed Basch with suspicious disdain, his presence was now ignored in favour of the master's affections.

"Go on—" Ffamran gestured, paired fingers forward; the dogs streamed away, a grey organic arrow flitting up towards the house, the disturbed vegetation in their wake near smothering the air with scent. "You," Ffamran said, and beckoned with a sidelong smile all the more disturbing for the brief flick of his lashes, open-eyed, "come take my arm, or we'll be late for dinner at my pace on this terrain."

Basch chose not to mention the staff across Ffamran's back, and cupped Ffamran's elbow in his hand to steer. The young man's heat through that limited contact seemed disproportionately much. Basch near forgot to push the willow's leafy tangle out of the way, that Ffamran flinched back at the touch of those tendrils across his cheek and Basch hastened to apologise.

Their progression was still slow, and painfully silent. Basch had scarce a topic appropriate for conversation, and felt his lack. Ffamran's step was the inverse of his, left to his right, that their hips hit on every second pace. Basch lengthened his stride until they fell into unison instead, with bare a brush of Ffamran's leather on Basch's leg in the place of collision.

"It's rather cold, for the sun still lingering," Basch hesitated. "Is this weather usual for this time of year?"

"Oh, yes," Ffamran replied, lips quirking. "In comparison to the fluctuations of Dalmascan weather Archades has very little rain and appallingly cold blue skies, consistently. I'm rather used to the chill; I prefer it so, I can feel the air shift with more clarity. Too much heat just feels stifling, like being swaddled blind in a vast blanket. Unfortunately the very ancestry of this property compromises us, that there's no central heating for your ease. When we return to the house I'll have a fire laid for you, if you like?"

"I'll be content without, spare yourself the trouble—"

"No trouble at all," Ffamran said, "at least none to me; for it's not as though I'd chop the wood myself."

"If your preference is for the cool –"

"I am not an ungracious host, Basch, I would not have it be said I let you freeze simply because of your unfamiliarity with Archadian nights."

"As you will," Basch said, acquiesced, "I would be grateful for it, after all."

_He is willfully stubborn,_ Noah warned, _yet likewise as willfully generous as he is stubborn; it would be unfortunate should one without the Empire's best at heart find in him an unparalleled resource, especially should Cidolphus depart us again, and with more permanence than his last sojourn. It is of vital importance we select the most appropriate of those names presented in the list decided prior._

_Noted_ , the red ink responded, and – _see to it in person._

At times one or a pair of dogs returned to circle and nudge at their master. Ffamran's head inclined to follow the sound of their movement against the brush as they would race back to the house with longing backwards glances, as though frustrated with his pace. Basch followed their trail without asking, and Ffamran seemed content for him to lead.

"The housekeeper mentioned that you had designed these gardens," Basch said, after the silence grew too thick to bear.

"I did indeed. Do you like them?"

"It seems – overmuch –"

Ffamran laughed, the tilt of his head uncomfortable where the sound was not. "For one man? Ah, well, Basch, this spans the extent of my world now. I traveled most extensively in my youth, that the limits of a house prove too much a cage for me."

"I know," Basch said, "somewhat of cages."

Ffamran contemplated that for long enough that Basch wished he had not spoken. "I designed this as an attempt to refrain from going as mad as my father," Ffamran said, his words slow. "Consider this my Ivalice, Basch; rather small in those terms, no?"

"Ffamran – your father – I did not have the chance to know him well, but you do have my sympathies for his death. It is never an easy thing, to lose the last of one's family."

"Did you kill him?"

"I – I am sorry. At the last he ran further than reason could reach –"

"Do you like my hounds?"

Basch hesitated, and near missed a step when the terrain fell sharply. Ffamran negotiated the fall with the ease of familiarity. "They appear a healthy pack. Alert. Most dedicated to you. Do you run them in the hunt?"

"Only here," Ffamran said, and gestured with his free hand. "I have the staff import and release all sorts of prey. Gizan bunnies, dreamhares, even a vorpal bunny once. _That_ was an interesting hunt."

"I can imagine," Basch said, dryly. "I recall more than one encounter with a vorpal bunny, one son of a —" Basch bit back the curse. "One of a kind. Horrendous things."

"Utter bastards too," Ffamran said, with a grin more feral than anything else. "I do so enjoy the sound of the hounds at play. Every beast has his element; and in it, he can only be happy. Ah, I can smell the kitchen already – do you like your dragonflesh rare or, as Noah had, as flavorsome as charcoal?"

Basch could smell only the localized shrubbery, rosemary run wild. _Dragonflesh?_ Where had he found dragonflesh, in Archades, so distant from the hunt? "Such concern for what I like, my lord—"

"If you're not fond of dragonflesh," Ffamran interrupted, a trifle too swiftly, "we should head out into town instead where you could choose at will something that would please you. I know a place – know of a place that serves Landisi fare, if you would care for a taste of home?"

_Belying what would seem the case when he is in a crowd; in person, he proves pleasant enough company, conversant enough in his father's studies that we may feel confident that should any treason or suggestion of such deviation be hiding behind Cidolphus's opacity of process, Ffamran will mention it to me. With the death of both his brothers to treason's blade, I suspect he wishes to keep me close in an effort to keep his father in legitimate, if distanced, contact with Vayne Solidor, for Cidolphus will not hear his son's voice._

When Basch had read that note, early that morning or late the prior night, the proximity of the wrong side of dawn made him somewhat lightheaded that he addressed it as though his brother would read it, in navy ink –

_Noah, how could you have forgotten what it means to be lonely?_

"I like it here well enough," Basch said. "And my dragonflesh rare."

"You have refined tastes," Ffamran said. "Much like your brother. Though I imagine your recent travails had left you with little time to indulge yourself."

"They were not such a hardship as you might imagine," Basch said.

"I should enjoy hearing of it all," Ffamran said. "If you wish, or are permitted, to tell – ?"

"Of course," Basch said. "I would enjoy the opportunity for discussion."  
.

  



	5. Chapter 5

The scarred landscape of Basch's shoulders proved a fascination for Ffamran, tracing. The fire's heat on the backs of his hands, fingertips found trails of soft skin slashed through the hard. The knots of the man's bones stood clear where Noah's banks of muscle had rendered him firm, sinew where Ffamran has expected to find sleekness. Spine, that Ffamran's fingers could lace between; ribs, that Ffamran's lips could find hollow and curve well defined; the blade of Basch's shoulders shifting under a palm, the bone of his hips a curving ache against Ffamran's thigh. It was a wonder to trace him, to touch someone this closely again, yet Basch proved little akin to Noah - that latter had always been too heavy to hold like this, half atop and half alongside.

The distinction between brothers was marked; it had been time, some time, since Noah had been present. Basch was a stranger to his hands, that his skin pebbled hard when Ffamran went to slide that hairless path below the line of his navel. He wandered upwards instead along Basch's shoulders, his neck, to find short-cut hair, a clenched jaw, lips bitten narrow and eyes closed. Ffamran found the mark of a scar across one brow, and could not picture what Noah would look like with a scar like that.

What frightened Ffamran was the extent that Noah's face had blurred in his mind's eye, a memory held too often to the light that the ink faded. He had read, long ago, that a blind man could recognize a man by the feel of his face, but his experience proved that a myth. Basch's nose, bone and flex, cheekbones flat, jaw tight or open, none of it laid a pattern for recognition without the existing framework of an image to hang such on, and here, presented with a face that should _feel_ as familiar as his own, Ffamran could not recognize the man.

_Basch is not his brother_ ; Ffamran sought to convince himself that distinction even between twins would be possible, probable, that this wasn't a faceless creature that sought, wet-lipped and cold-nosed, to nip at his neck –

When Ffamran dismissed the man, he tried not to interpret that half-heard sigh as one of relief. Basch would not be here if he had not the same interests as his brother, for Ffamran had made his intent as clear as an Archadian sky. Perhaps Basch had a preference for less speed, more surety; for that, Ffamran could wait. Nevertheless, as the man dressed himself again, Ffamran felt a shivering relief that he himself had not done more than unlace the top eyelets of his collar, that he could stand and smooth the leather of his pants with nothing more than an uncomfortable ache to hide. He startled when Basch touched his hand, waited when Basch palmed his nape, and took that chaste, hurried kiss as the least of his due for a night of conversation.

_Basch is not his brother_ , Ffamran reminded himself, when Basch returned days later, uninvited, unannounced, and all unknowing for the improper rudeness of such an action. It took Ffamran too long to haul himself out of his layered slumber at his manservant's call, too long to dress, that he wondered if he would have been better to just ignore Basch's arrival. Basch waited though, so _tolerant_ , though they had so little to speak of even as they measured a circuit through the gardens, almost, not quite, arm in arm.

Stilted against that silence, Basch continued his tale of that last venture in Dalmasca's employ. A fantastic tale, that, pirates and princesses, orphans and traitors, all woven warp and weft with Solidor and Bunansa, Margrace and Ronsenberg, Azelas and Dalmasca. A veritable journey through that swathe of laden names, that Ffamran wondered at the fates' twisting to permit a hero such as Basch only one recourse, to lose his own name. Basch must lie as dead as undisturbed dust lest Archadia fall and Bhujerba with it. Ffamran felt a vague thrill at the thought that he was one of those few elite to know Basch, in confidence.

Basch sacrificed so much for the sake of those others, people Ffamran would never know as more than a tale or tone of voice. Ffamran heard the ache in Basch's voice when he spoke of Vossler's fall with the fleet. Basch laid ample frustrations at the pirate's feet, but Ffamran nevertheless detected some vague fondness there – and small wonder, for that pirate proved no less than the fourth son of the Rozzarian throne. The untrammeled warming of Basch's voice at mention of said pirate's Viera partner had Ffamran retort his own blissful ignorance of the race, for his youthful travels had taken him west, not south to where Viera lived. Even mention of Ashelia Dalmasca, with Basch's mock-growl an older brother's rebuke of his wayward sister, set Ffamran burning, for his life would never, could never, hold such dedication to another.

The absences, the gaps in the tale, Ffamran realized meant either mention of his father or Noah. He did not know whether to be grateful that he was spared that, or angry that Basch sought to coddle him. Angry, Ffamran decided, for even harsh mention of Noah would have been better than this silence, yet it proved difficult to stay angry when Basch met every sharp word with calm or an encompassing silence.

It would take time for the silences between them to be more comfort than awkwardness, too long, that Ffamran wondered how long he would be willing to wait. He deemed it unjust to _ask_ outright; for all his admiration of Basch's honesty, the man must live a lie daily. His sole surcease was in Ffamran's company, and to do as Larsa had done and position Basch where a further lie would tempt him - no, Ffamran would wait. He was no Solidor, to demand.

Days blurred, days when Ffamran refused Larsa's invitations, the call of caucus, when Basch arrived with the evening's chill to depart before midnight's snap. Through those days Ffamran did the minimum necessary observation to ensure his father's shipyards performed – but that observation most minimal since he had replaced all the staff with Moogles there. Time, too _much_ time on his hands, that he could brood and bleed much over this distinction: if Basch was not Noah, then how long would it take to know him well enough?

Time; the longer that span, the more Basch proved most different from his brother.

It took exhaustion to make Ffamran unwary enough to break, a night when Basch lingered so long that Ffamran ached from sleeplessness and too much broken conversation, that even the effort to hold his expression proved too taxing. The great fire sucked air until Ffamran felt lightheaded enough, the skin across his cheekbones tight and near numb with the heat, a discomfort enough that he reached to unlace the collar of his shirt –

Basch's weight across his thighs had him gasp, for he had not heard the man approach; Basch's scent, white musk that had grown most familiar these passing days, had him keep inhaling, hungering. He set his face into the sinuous curve of Basch's neck, breathing him. Hands touched at his throat to assume the task, that Ffamran's laces unraveled too swift, that Ffamran had to say, unsteady, _wait, wait._

"I am not my brother," Basch said, _growled_ , "with your secret social signals to understand what you want, nor years of casual acquaintance and one of intimate to know your needs so easily. Is this not the sole reason why you claimed my company?"

"You belittle your conversational skills," Ffamran retorted, giddy. "Quite captivating, as you must know from the veritable flurry of repartee—"

"Do you want," and Basch's breath curled between them, heavy, that Ffamran turned his face up unconsciously, seeking lips but finding only air, "me—"

That stern uncertainty had Ffamran laugh, his head falling back, and the sound was drunk with exhaustion; gods, a storybook hero sat across his lap and asked him _that_ -? This was not Noah to seek comfort in his flesh, scant relief for their paired solitude; this was Basch straddling him, unbroken and dedicated, to Larsa, to Dalmasca still, to so many others with more to offer than a crippled third son.

Ffamran held his shirt closed, the lace lost, for he had not heard where Basch placed it and would not fumble nor ask. He pushed, up, to stand; Basch stepped back, swift. Ffamran heard the man's lips part, a wet sound that he knew formed an apology.

"Shut up," Ffamran said, "I don't want to hear you talk. Sit down."

Silks opened with ease, to slide; as Ffamran knelt between Basch's knees, Basch shifted his hips to assist until Ffamran divested him of all his clothing. Basch's knees brushed against the shirt now loose over Ffamran's shoulders. Ffamran could not but help trace that touch, one palm to a leg, recording. That dry triangle of skin beneath Basch's kneecap, inexplicable yet identical to Noah's, as was the high texture of the man's skin, light-furred. The feel recorded as a compliment; Basch's lower half to match Ffamran's memory of his upper from that first, abortive, night. Less scars on this lower half, though Basch's shinbone had thickened in places from striking, the muscle firm enough that there was no flex in the flesh. Thighs proved no less sturdy, if less furred, until Ffamran found the pulse that flickered in the man's groin, and _there -_ there was softness.

More than words, that spoke a story Ffamran did not want to hear; he balked. Before he could stand, before he could think to stand, Basch's hands were of a sudden in his hair, along his neck, rough-palmed, wide-fingered. His skull cupped, Ffamran could not help but arch back into that strong grip, and Basch's thumb traced the column of his throat, steadily.

"I know not my brother's strength of will, Ffamran," Basch said, hoarse, "but it is over-late, or most early, and it was an especially long day; would that I had the command over my flesh that I did in my youth—"

Basch fell silent when Ffamran set his cheek to Basch's thigh and rubbed. Ffamran knew the action too kittenish for his age and could not care, for against the burn of his eyes, the flesh there was warm, Basch's scent comforting, and damned close enough to Noah's that it did not matter. "Strange that you should so say—"

"My lord," Basch said, "give me but one moment—"

"I thought I'd indicated I wanted your silence."

Ffamran disliked the feel of half-soft flesh in his mouth, cool, but as with Noah, it proved the only way he could take the size Basch sported. Two long sucking strokes, rocking back on his heels, three more, until his throat would not permit that thickening substantive mass, and cool softness became a bar of heat instead. Basch's hands were on his shoulders, under the shirt, as rough as Noah's had been – but that, that could not matter now, with his jaw aching and so soon. Ffamran had no desire to pace himself. Basch's breath rasped, and he breathed small sounds, almost words, almost his name; Ffamran paused to take Basch's wrists, to put Basch's palms flat against the sides of his head that when he rocked again to choking point, Basch held him, pressed tight, _tighter -_ and pulled, palms flush against Ffamran's ears, that all sound subsumed in the roar of Ffamran's own blood under that pressure –

Breath was hard to find, the weight of need so pressing. How narrow his world became under such compression, that in Basch's hands that rushing silence became everything, even more compelling than the force against his throat; sightless, soundless, only touch was left to define the boundaries of skin and sky. The feel of Basch's palms, the man's desperate pull defied that growing need to breathe, until, denied air until aching, Ffamran felt as though even his motion was not his own. Taste was a sudden torrent, bitterness to fill his throat, and Ffamran drank as though drought was a cruel way of life.

He knelt still; Basch stroked away Ffamran's shudders after, long enough that Ffamran's legs went numb with his kneeling. Standing undid all that fragile calm, for he staggered, dizzied; Basch steadied him, and with cloth – silk, Basch's own shirt – he wiped wet away from Ffamran's cheeks that Ffamran had not known was there.

Ffamran caught the man's wrist as fingers touched his own hard ache. The firmness of grip proved sufficient, for after a moment of strain, Basch desisted without demanding an explanation, instead asking:

"Will you – do you want me to stay?"

Yet that proved a question impossible to answer, for the burning need that yes, _yes_ , wanted Basch to stay; for the absent ache that still, _still_ , wanted Noah and would not believe his death; for his throat's rasp that would not permit a smooth answer. Basch seemed to have taken that silence for refusal, for as Ffamran stood unsupported, struggling to find balance, he heard the man dress.

When Basch tried to kiss him, Ffamran turned his head, abrupt, away. Lips grazed his cheekbone instead, to settle against his neck. Basch saw himself out. Even after the screen clicked closed, Ffamran listened to the sound of footsteps receding, the distant murmur of the nightkeeper unlocking the front door, Basch's curt thanks.

After he had assured himself that Basch did not linger in the room, Ffamran sneered.

  



	6. Chapter 6

The scent of tea and red honey hung heavy on the still air of Basch's study. It was too modest a potion to combat the compound sleepless nights; Basch had not known how much he could ache for the simplicity of short Dalmascan coffee, or even that black Rozzarian slurry the pirate had brewed on their travels, as thick as sand and with a likewise gritty residue. Thus far it seemed impossible to find a decent black brew anywhere in Archades, or even the grain to grind. He wondered if Ffamran would happen to know a place, and clamped that thought before it could continue.

Basch shifted the papers between his hands as though he read each page, scanning without seeing. It was not an especial distraction on his part, not for lack of sleep or other thought, for even on a fresh morning he could scarce tolerate the denseness of the Archadian legal language much less the text itself. An Empire carved by a sword was nevertheless dictated by documentation; it was Basch's sorrow that he proved far more suited to the carving than the dictation. Even Raminas, in his most trying of circumstance, had known better than to position Basch anywhere but with a greatsword in his hands.

"Three attempts that I have caught," Zargabaath said from across the desk, his patience tried by the tea's diversion, "and you have passing acquaintance with the fourth – we cannot allow this to continue. Larsa needs earn his seat, and yet as the days pass with no call to vote, he loses more of his closest supporters. We both know what needs to be done; I question why you have not done it?"

Basch shifted, his shoulder straining against the weight of that armor. The wound stung on both sides of his shoulder, but the penetration itself only ached, another double-sided scar to add to the others. He had performed the lightest of healing for that bolt's strike, for in civilized circumstances time performed preferably to the haste of Mist-wrought healing. The corresponding vulnerability in his armoured plate had been corrected within the hour.

"Larsa needs more guards than we two, that is what needs to be done," Basch said. "It was only my distraction that permitted the assassin so close."

"Close?" Zargabaath said, amused. "He was two blocks away and on a rooftop. It was only your skill that caught the bolt before Larsa's throat did."

Basch thrust his pile of papers onto the desk, jostling his teacup, uncaring. "Do you bear no trust for any of your men that we can share these duties? Why employ them to begin with, should they prove so lacking in that essential quality?"

"Tis scarce a matter of trust, and such a quality has never been that of high consideration in Archadian court—"

"Then what quality do you seek in its place, Zargabaath? Politeness, that they smile as they spread their poison, that they follow due and legal process in the course of contracting an assassin—that they'll abide by some secret written contract to stop trying to kill Larsa once his narrow arse kisses the throne? Gods, man; there is _nothing_ more to be considered than the quality of a man's trust—"

"Would you reduce everything to a matter of trust – so that one united nation can be utterly fragmented when a single man's trust proves a mask for betrayal?" Zargabaath caught his eyes, and did not smile. "Trust is a soft lie shared between lovers; it is not the bedrock of a nation. This you of all should know, for did not Dalmasca near fall –and _twice_ — to learn that lesson?"

"Yet Larsa trusts you," Basch said. "You would have sacrificed yourself at the last to spare Rabanastre the weight of Bahamut's shadow. It would not surprise me to find all of Rabanastre bears you no grudging quantity of trust."

"That is not trust, nor did my actions merit such a response," Zargabaath said, and collected his teacup. The porcelain was an incongruous whiteness against the dark leather of his gauntlet's under-glove.

"What was it, then? Do you hunger for a blazing death?"

"It was my duty, Basch."

"Duty," Basch said, and near laughed. "Indeed. Such things we do for duty, Zargabaath; such weighty demands."

"Ffamran is not so weighty as that, from the look of him." His expression was neither bland nor blank; Basch read the irritation in the set of Zargabaath's jaw, the steel gaze. "If possibly as demanding, from the shadows 'neath your eyes."

Basch rose, too abruptly that his chair caught on the rug and that only his swift motion stopped its fall, yet even as he paced to the narrow window Zargabaath did not move but to pour himself more tea. The clink of teaspoon on porcelain warred with Basch's growl as he struggled with the stubbornness of the window, his best efforts obtaining only a sliver of fresh air.

"All is well, I take it?" Zargabaath said, idly.

"I'm a military man," Basch said, and shrugged that his armour clattered punctuation, "not a – a flatterer, a godsdamned _lawyer_ , to spread words as thick as butter to ease my way."

"As a military man – and one recently availed of the instructive services of one overpaid man of high leisure – I am certain you are familiar with what Ffamran asks of you. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to advise that neither words nor butter are appropriate to ease your way."

"Familiarity and appropriateness do not concern me. It is _Ffamran_."

At that, Zargabaath stirred himself to stand, slowly, his voice most wary. "Your meaning?"

"Are you so far from youth," Basch said, over his still-sore shoulder, "and so wed to your stern duty that you've forgotten the best ease for such a thing is somewhat of trust?"

"Bah," Zargabaath said, "Ffamran's trust comes after he does. So your brother determined."

Basch stared down at his bare knuckles, sitting eight white points aligned on that slight strip of sill he had managed to expose. He kept his fists clenched there, for safety's sake. His, or Zargabaath's, he could not determine, for in a fight between them he was still unsure who would come off the better.

"Lord Bunansa has not sent for nor otherwise seen me for nigh a fortnight," Basch said, steady, and could not permit himself to think of that silent dismissal with which Ffamran had sent him away, nor the act which had preceded it. "His housekeeper turns me away, thus I have not had the opportunity to substantiate that statement. I must have proved unsuited to the Lord—" Basch took a slow breath— "to his tastes."

"You would count the fickle temper of a single man above the security of an entire Empire?" Zargabaath asked, more fury than incredulity. "Indeed, you are _not_ the man your brother was."

"I am a military man," Basch said, and only when his knuckles stung did he realize he had struck at the wall. Fortunate he had doffed his gauntlets, for his hand would heal better than chips in the stone. "I cannot tolerate the ambiguity of what this role demands of me. I must wear this armour, but against what do I defend? Why do I carry this blade, for whom do I fight? For Larsa, or for the Empire – yet I will never take the field, this garb is too weighty, too slow, and when I don that damned helm I may as well be as blind as poor Ffamran for all extent of my vision. This armour is not armour – it is a _ruse_ , Zargabaath, a lie, a sign as blatant as a mummer's mask and near as useless in battle; as much a ruse as that fop's silk I wear when I – when I go to Ffamran. He is blind, not stupid; he sees through both disguises with ease and with me he is _not_ at ease. I am not my brother, Zargabaath, not Archadia's lawkeeper, not Ffamran's lover, never subtle enough to be a spy, scarce capable even as Larsa's defender. I cannot serve as you would have me serve, no matter how you would garb me."

"Yet you do serve, as simply as with Gabranth's continued presence; you serve, and as ably as you may. Here – from your conflict I presume you have not read this—where is it now…"

Basch turned at the susurrus of paper; by the time he paced that distance to the desk, Zargabaath held aloft a single report.

"Your filing system is non-existent," he said, his brows raised. "You do realize desks are for working, not storage?"

"Seeing as you've read that already, perhaps you should tell me what it says, in brief, or we'll be here all day."

"You are decidedly a military man, to prefer a brief oral history to the richness embedded in full literature." Zargabaath seated himself in Basch's chair, rocking back against the imprints of Noah's armour in that leather. Basch took the time to reclaim his forgotten teacup, nursing it untouched as Zargabaath continued. "What this report contains is an extensive detailing of discovered caches scattered through higher Archades; weaponry, armour, all colored midnight and gold – yet across the breast lies a winged sword, broken in two, and a beheaded serpent."

Basch felt his brow wrinkle as he frowned, and tried to smooth the expression. "The winged sword is the Solidor coat of arms. The serpent Vayne's personal insignia. Beheaded and broken does not bode well."

"Aye," Zargabaath said, his impatience barely concealed. "And the colours?"

"Solidor colours are forest green with a trim of black, not midnight and gold—gods, _Zargabaath_. Those are House Bunansa's colours."

"Now you understand the importance of your role," Zargabaath said. "Tis not the coddling of a young man's whim nor even the concerns for our currency. An Empire can stand united even without the gil behind it, and House Solidor has more than enough investments of their own to float a sinking market—"

"Yet both you and Larsa stated –"

"The true concern cannot be aired in front of Lord Larsa, of course," Zargabaath said, as though the matter truly was as certain as his tone. "Tell me, as an outsider, how do you think Larsa will react at the word that over half the senate and near all the lords would put Ffamran Bunansa on the throne before they'll let another Solidor grace that seat with – how did you say it – his narrow arse?"

Basch sat, carefully, and sipped at his tea. It was sickly with scant-lingering warmth.

"I suspect," he said, "Larsa will act exactly as past Solidors have when confronted with treachery."

Zargabaath nodded, once, curt. "And therein we find an end for House Bunansa, the bitter instability of a senate vastly divided, and the rampant confusion of the desperate grab of generations of half-blood and distant Bunansas with no right to the name, all scrabbling for that prized pot of eggs that Ffamran broods atop. Another Solidor mounts the throne by standing on the dead. It is not of an aid to Empire nor Ivalice to entertain this thought, and Ffamran would not be much impressed either."

"Ffamran would never consider taking the throne. I – I cannot say that I know him, but as well as I may, I know that this is not a thought that motivates him."

"It is not his fickle temper that concerns those that would put him on the throne," Zargabaath said. "Ffamran is nothing more than a symbol – he is his colours, he is his house, and he is not a Solidor. The man that takes the throne is not a man any longer, Basch, he is only that symbol, a head for a crown, a statement to the world that this is Archades, united, indivisible, ruled. The Solidors are a new house in historic terms, a merchant's spawn bought their way into high society; Ffamran is the last clear scion of a long bloodline of true Valendian nobility, one of the scant few remaining in the Empire. Those men that would put him on the throne do so simply because someone needs to take it and in Larsa they see only the self-destruction of his brother."

"Yet what you speak of is a mere play of symbols," Basch said, disturbed. "The movement of pawns on a board, the whirl of stars in the sky. Crossed colours and winged swords, beheaded serpents, symbols to hide the Hume intent as our armour hides our own fallibility, Zargabaath – we wear these that we may be more than a man striving to judge fairly, and instead become that image of a righteous executioner, and this fills me with unease. Where in Archadia are those that see the flesh and blood behind house colours and horned helm?"

"In this room," Zargabaath said, and smiled. "Sitting before me."

Basch shook his head, reluctant. "Is this literary madness born into all Archadians? Was my brother as heartless?"

"Call it not heartlessness, Basch, for we may all love and learn as any other does. But understand, rather, as your brother did – to understand the world, one life must be swallowed. All men will die and their trust and caring with them; the only thing that endures is the cause to which they dedicate their actions. That you sold your youth and future to the cause of Dalmasca's permanence, to the Empire's stability, instead of the comfort of a small man – wife, child, house – this says to me you are more like your brother than you are want to believe. Noah understood, for a man is nothing when he stands on his own. Our very names are as nothing; tis only our actions that stand against time."

"Yet if this stands true, that a single man matters not, that we serve Empire and not Solidor, then why must we hold so firm behind Larsa? If they want Ffamran on the throne, then let them have him, and we shall avoid this bloodshed."

Zargabaath shook his head, and of a sudden, sorrow weighted his expression with long years. "Who do you think will prove the easier puppet, a blind, broken man bereft of company, or a wide-eyed, idealistic youth with Vayne Solidor as tutor?"

"Ah, Ffamran." Basch said it involuntarily, and his fresh-grazed knuckles passed across his eyes. "Gods, Zargabaath, what a web this is that we must judge definitively and yet judge so blind— and all this comes to pass because Ffamran delays at casting his vote in Larsa's favour?"

"The Empire is not a monolithic entity," Zargabaath said. "As Ffamran delays, numbers within the senate and the high Houses grow more sternly convinced that he means to make a move for the throne himself. The caches of weaponry we have found are in locations that incriminate many men and many houses, and those are only the ones we can _find_. There will be more. They are ready to move with Ffamran, and they are ready to move without him, and in his name. Should he cast his vote summarily, civil war may be minimized."

"Minimized. Yet not avoided."

Zargabaath grinned. "We always knew it would come to a battle, Basch, even Larsa knew. Why else did your brother task you to his protection, and why else do we wear this—" his armour rang under that summary strike of fist to breastplate— "for it's not all for looks."

Basch took another mouthful of tea, absently, unwisely, for the chill now was worse than sickly, and too sweet that the honey had settled at the bottom. He swallowed regardless. He ached for a cold sunrise over a campfire, slow-brewed coffee to awaken with smell as much as taste, and a day of nothing more than the next clear destination, a journey's conclusion so far distant it was not worth a thought. Basch won battles, not wars; he had to turn his thoughts to this next battle, and no further.

"I have been most remiss in my duty," Basch said, and felt his exhaustion like another decade atop his near-twoscore years. "I apologise."

Zargabaath smoothed the scattered papers of the desk into a single neat pile and proffered them to Basch. "Mistakes made once are rarely made twice."

.

  



	7. Chapter 7

On the day his mother died, Ffamran heard his father's heart break. It was the sound of a grown man sobbing, muffled through a thick wooden door.

Youth blurred Ffamran's recollection of the details of his mother's illness. He remembered being upset in spasms, like a stomach ache; one day fine and playing, the next day curled and aching, and wishing, perhaps, she would just go so his life could stabilize. If she could have just died, there would be no more need to be so silent indoors, to tiptoe when he wanted to run, to shout, to break things just to see how they shattered; he stayed outdoors instead, lost to the extent that only Ell or Aarron's call would bring him back under a roof.

When his mother at last let go, the doctor who never left her side sought out Cid in his study to pass the word, and it was so strange to see the man unmasked that Ffamran could think of nothing to say. With his shoulders set to the great wood of his father's desk, his book abandoned across his knees, Ffamran could remember position and man and news, but not the words, nor the name of the book he was so assiduously not studying. Ffamran also remembered the expression on his father's face, more stubborn in his memory than any desperate attempt to cling to Noah's features. Ffamran fell near sick with the guilt of his wishing, for Cid shattered, and Ffamran had no way to know how to piece a heart together again.

Lost in the labyrinth of his own grief, Cid had not the words for comfort or condolence. Those next few years it had been Ffamran's brothers who raised him. Cid found his way back to being a man, that he did not shed a tear when he interred Aarron's body in the Bunansa crypt, that he said nothing but farewell when Ellory found his rest, scarce a year later, in the coffin beside Cid's firstborn and first fallen son. Cid kept everything behind closed doors so Ffamran could not see him shatter again – but Ffamran _heard_ , Gods, he heard every word, every shout, every cry. The summer house of sighing wood hid nothing; their townhouse of stone too small for secret griefs.

The day Ffamran woke to a sightless world burned everlasting in his memory, not for the loss of his eyes, but for that no son should ever have to taste his father's tears.

Ffamran set aside that useless beggar's bandage across his eyes, for the very cloth suggested hope for healing, and made his way into a world unknown. The summer house's great hall, once a source of sprinting games and cascading brotherly catastrophe became instead a terrain sabotaged; his whole house, so familiar, became a waking nightmare. To move against that ever-fear, of a chasm, a shift, a fall, every step threatening a vertiginous humiliation, Ffamran pushed slowly against the chill of the air as though he moved through water, striving to feel the eddies of every presence that surrounded him. The limping image in Ffamran's mind's eye was of a slug seeking across the floor, crawling along the walls, for his entrance into a new room marked itself by a hesitation at every door as he sought to absorb the space before him – as though he could osmose light through his skin. Yet he had been born in this house, lived its halls every summer, he should know it. Ffamran kept away his vertigo only with ceaseless motion.

He suspected he and his father negotiated the same spaces at times, with Cid always avoiding Ffamran's seeking fingertips. Ffamran often caught the sound of a breath, a swift step out of his reach – he took to demanding an answer from the unresponsive air, the empty rooms. He stopped not for the questionable sanity of such an action, but only when he realized that even had his father been standing in the same room, any answer he could give would nevertheless be empty.

Ffamran knew the snide joke that slid around Tsenoble circles, _House Bunansa, cursed with death for dabbling with destiny._ Jealousy, his father had always said that statement was, unswerving in his self belief; _jealousy for a man who does not sit on his ancestor's successes and instead strives for a future_. Yet now his father railed, ranted, cursed, _cursed to death_ , as though Ffamran's death would come as another inevitable sacrifice to the Fates for the father's follies.

_Yet I am not dead_ , Ffamran told the eddies of air in his father's wake, _I'm here, Father_.

For all the response he received he may as well have been a haunting. Ffamran wanted to scream until Cid shattered again, scream until the world screamed back and fell apart, yet he did neither, scream nor fall apart.

Ffamran's guilt felt like nausea, oscillating with vertigo for prime sensation, for his blindness was his own fault, a mishap, an accident; perhaps Cid took that guilt on his own shoulders – an error in the prototype's drafting, an imbalance in the mist-mechanics. Something must have weighed Cid alike that he sought activity to drive away thought, for he took to entertaining Vayne Solidor with greater frequency until Ffamran had to hunt for a refuge in his own house.

His mother's death could be directly laid at the foot of the Solidors' throne, for the batch of war refugees that brought the plague that killed her. Aarron died in the arms of Gramis's eldest son with Vayne's blade in his guts; Ellory protesting his innocence with Vayne's blade in his throat. Understandably Cid had never entertained much fondness for Gramis Solidor, disdaining the man's court in favour of his own shipyards, yet if Ffamran heard his father's voice these days it was always to address Vayne Solidor, as though that snake had subsumed the place of a pair of sons by right of killing them. Vayne's shadow lurked around every corner, the scent of his perfume through the air, the mellifluous tenor resonating through walls and floor, floorboards and blankets, even through the pillow Ffamran held tight over his ears. Vayne addressed him should they encounter one another, polite in a non-pitying manner that nevertheless made that piteous lack paramount. Ffamran could not trust a Solidor, especially not _this_ Solidor; his father's actions were a mystery, irresolvable, for Cid would not answer any query.

The path upstairs Ffamran climbed treacherously slow to find the rooms where his brothers used to sleep, their flesh so long gone yet their shadows preserved by Cid's unspoken request. In their beds, Ffamran found indentations in their sheets still, the linen crisp yet the mattresses old. Aarron's bed, with the carpeted room still full of the scent of gunpowder and steel, Ellory's very bedhead laced with old ink and leather; ghosts of sensation lost. In their beds Ffamran dreamed as he did not in his own, and in his dreams he still had vision. He would wake into blankness with wet on his cheeks, and wonder if ghosts still needed to breathe.

The household staff had taken Ffamran's guns away when he rose blinded from his bed, all the wrested relics of his months with the astronomers as distant as the stars. Aarron's guns, still in their mounts on the walls, proved just as cool, yet warmed most swift in Ffamran's slick palms. Of them he re-learned the revolver most carefully; three pushes to release the chamber, six pushes to load bullets, one push and two pulls to cock the gun. The revolver he handled because he could feel each mechanism as it found its place; he learned it until he could have drafted an image of its components had someone set paper to his hand. Aarron's gun, yet Ellory's bed, for the smell of ink and leather set him more at ease than gunpowder and steel. Ffamran slept through the boredom of the days with the gun against his bare chest, and dreamed.

The staff let him be, piteous creature; it was Cid who woke Ffamran, tremulous, shaking. For all his unheard words prior, Ffamran had nothing to say to his father this time. He heard when his father threw the gun across the room, thought it somewhat fortunate that he had not cocked it for a stray bullet to claim another to the Bunansa curse. Cid sat him upright only to slap him hard enough that colour whirled through that blankness behind his lids, sparking.

_I have to leave_ , Cid told him. _Vayne Solidor has given me the word to change fate, for us to reclaim our right to live free of whatever end the Fates would intend. I go, Ffamran, I go to Giruvegan for you—_

Dazed, Ffamran promised accordingly that which his father demanded, of the sanctity of his own flesh against this drowning dream of death. In his father's absence, he did not hope for healing. Neither Fates nor Gods had a hand in the chance that took his sight, only Hume fallibility, yet Cid of all of the Bunansas never believed in his own mortality. When his father returned after months of his journeying, Ffamran knew his resolve for hopelessness a wise one and felt his distrust in Vayne Solidor continuously justified, for Cid returned only to be more absent than mere distance could make him. Where it had been Ffamran speaking to empty rooms before, now Cid paced out his thoughts as though the air responded.

Vayne still came, and sometimes Cid spoke to him instead of the air. Vayne brought with thoughts, provocation, contemplation that sounding achingly close to the treason he had killed Ellory for, to change history, to claim the future. Idiocy, Ffamran decided even then, for against the fast vastness of the cosmos, a single man's striving meant nothing – not even Vayne Solidor's. Vayne came with escorts now, Judge Magisters remembered from Ffamran's days at the Akademy, and of them only Gabranth paused to speak with Cid's blind son, an apt pupil with long sight and deft aim mutually mourned.

Vayne Solidor had killed Noah too, Ffamran thought as he walked that distance from the summer house to the crypt, finding his way across grass slippery from morning dew. Basch told him Vayne had set his hand to that, and Ffamran – no, he didn't trust Basch, but he – he believed him. Too easy to blame Basch for his brother's absence when Noah and Vayne both lay unrepentantly dead; Ffamran wondered if perhaps Cid had ever felt the urge to blame Ffamran for his continuance when Ellory and Aarron both died. The last surviving brother bore the weight of those fallen before.

It was remiss, Ffamran reflected, of him to expect from Basch everything that Noah had given simply by the merit of his person. He resolved to keep his distance. Ffamran knew somewhat of expectation, and it was not a comfortable burden.

The stone of the Bunansa crypt was cold under Ffamran's palms, one on either wall as he descended, but not chill. This cold that spoke of the endless earth, not the vagrancy of air unblanketed by cloud, a coolness that stayed, unmoving. He remembered the path well enough from hours spent at his brothers' coffins before he had lost his sight. From shafts cut through the thickness of stone overhead, there would be light falling in geometric patterns on that sleek stone floor, dust hanging in the air; the very smell, that bone dryness, sparked an image so sharply Ffamran's lids fluttered as though he could truly see instead of just remembering. He trailed fingertips across Ellory's marker, a brief greeting, Aarron's likewise meriting a momentary pause, yet it was at his father's empty coffin that Ffamran stopped, for the first time since his symbolic interment.

The men of his family indeed suffered a curse, if not that which his father so lamented – for all men who live must die.

"You were wrong," Ffamran told the cold stone of that empty grave, "about everything, that this point scarcely seems to matter – yet something must matter to us, Father, for otherwise our sole concern would be to seek death, and I do not seek that. Nor did you, or Ellory, or Aarron. Death is not our curse. We just love too much, burningly so, until love would have us use the world to fuel that blaze."

Cid did not reply, unsurprisingly, that Ffamran smirked at himself – once again talking to empty rooms - and he turned to make his way back up to the air. When he emerged from the crypt, the sun on his face felt startlingly warm, near midday then. The breeze came heavy with the scent of fresh-cut grass from the morning, blades dying under the sun. Ffamran had not thought himself buried for so long.

The sound – footsteps – he turned north to face the sound, concerned, for the staff knew to leave him alone when he came out here—

"Where are your guards, my lord? I could be sent to kill you, and you stand here defenseless."

"What sorry sort of assassin would take a blind man as a mark, and what fat merchant would want a rich man's death? In any case, no one but the household was informed I was in retreat here. The summer house is still closed."

"In truth, you are a hard man to find when you wish not to be disturbed."

"I find you a hard man," Ffamran replied, oh, _Basch_ , "for you go to such great lengths to disturb me."

"It was not that much of a length," Basch said, too nonchalant to be at ease, "not in a ship. I should not have enjoyed the walk from Archades, though, I would have spoiled my silks."

"Pace your aforethought witticisms or you'll be dry before the day is out."

"I assure you," Basch said, stiffly, "I am being entirely spontaneous."

At that Ffamran paused, his face inclined to the sun, yet he heard only the slight crush of silk, of Basch's shifting weight, and the man made no further move.

"After a statement like that," Ffamran said, "you should be ravishing me most profoundly."

Basch's breath exploded out, a distressed temper, that he said, "Ffamran, you've not seen nor spoken to me for the last fortnight, and it was only chance that had me think to find you here. What am I to understand from your silence, but that you are angry with me –for –for my mistreatment of your offering—"

"My silence is for the matter of my own thought, for at times I find the map of my own motivations somewhat suspect." He tilted his head to follow the sound of Basch's pacing. "What mistreatment do you mean?"

"I—handled you somewhat abruptly, when you—knelt for me. I thought perhaps you repulsed; I would apologise—"

Ffamran wondered if Basch blushed, for with the thickening of his voice it sounded that he did. Noah had not blushed that Ffamran could remember from the Akademy. He imagined it limited to neck and ears on those brothers.

"I think," Ffamran said, "you should leave the thinking to others, for you snarl yourself in thoughts like a kitten in wool and most unrepentantly."

"You aren't angered?"

"Oh, decidedly so, but that seems to be the state of my existence now; at least it chases away the despair. But both anger and distance is not directed at your abrupt handling, Basch, and instead at myself, for thinking so swiftly you could be what I needed—"

"I want to be what you need, my lord."

"I need Noah," Ffamran said, swift enough that he could pretend he had not heard. "He is dead—"

It was difficult to construct an argument with another man's tongue against his own; Ffamran waited until Basch finished rather than be as undignified as struggling.

"—and I would not have you play his role, to lie—"

Vertigo had him gasp, and the world spun most uncertainly; Basch's arms around him flexed, hard muscle straining to slow that fall. Basch grunted as he took Ffamran's weight, yet however softly Basch thought he had lowered him, Ffamran's breath exploded out of him as his back hit the grass. Shadow fell across his face, cutting the sun.

"My apologies again," Basch said, "I must have misheard; did you say you wanted to lie down?"

Ffamran licked his lips dry and kept his palms to the earth, to convince himself he could not fall any further "The deaf and the blind, oh, yes, Basch, well done. A low blow, that you must resort to slapstick for results."

"…as you wish, my lord."

"I said _slapstick, you—_ stop—"

Ffamran grabbed as Basch stripped off his belt with unerring efficiency, reaching with a spasmodic unkempt motion he wished he could have forestalled, for surely it did nothing but make him look helpless. His shirt rolled against his shoulders, the grass against the small of his back proved humid as he writhed, pinned by a heavy palm on his chest. Basch reached for the fastening at his waistband, that Ffamran brought his knee up in an effort to deter the man – perhaps an unwise move for Basch avoided both vague blow and buttons alike, to pull Ffamran's trousers past raised hips with ease.

"No repartee today, Ffamran?" Basch asked, fingers tangled with Ffamran's where the latter held on to possession of his undergarments with a desperate grip. "A shame, for I have a right spontaneous riposte ready for you."

"Three witticisms in one day, I almost think a stranger wearing your voice is striving so diligently to divest me of dignity." Ffamran could not stop the creeping grin, and it seemed that had Basch pause, for he ran callused fingertips across Ffamran's jaw, his lips. So delicate a touch for that roughness that Ffamran shuddered and turned to face into Basch's palm, tasting salt.

"Ah, Ffamran—"

"In truth, you aren't much like your brother, are you?"

"Did you love him, that you think you cannot take another for his sake?"

"Hardly," Ffamran said, and his breath hitched as Basch inveigled fingers between undergarment and stomach, to thread them through curls. The world teetered, a dizzying whirl; Ffamran kept his hips flush with the earth only with effort, for his motion here would not serve to ground him. "Hardly. I think – he did pity me, still, yet he was – willing to – ah – but I – I cannot help but consider him in your presence, and I am no cruel Solidor to demand such a thing as having you try to fill his place falsely."

"Yet of everyone in Archades, it is only with you that I have the freedom to be as I am, neither Noah nor Gabranth. It grieves me that you would scupper that opportunity preemptively, untried."

"Untried? Oh, you try me so. Scarce a moment before you appeared here I had resolved to keep my distance, Basch, that you should not have to labour under the weight of expectation, and now look at this proximity!"

Basch shifted his grip, the angle of his wrist suddenly eased. Ffamran scarce bit back a hiss, aching. " _This_ does not seem to be in agreement with your resolve, my lord."

When Basch stopped, drew away, Ffamran arched despite himself, one hand questing until he found the edge of the man's shirt and drew him back to his knees. "Gods, Basch, will you stop manipulating me so? I – oh, do I want, but I can offer nothing in return—I'm crippled, man, I'll never hold beside you, I'll never fly or fight, I can be nothing more than—this, a child on his back demanding your pity as well as your prick. How can–how can _I_ ever be enough?"

Basch tasted him again, so roughly this time Ffamran felt the stubble on Basch's jaw, the press of Basch's nose alongside his own, hands hurting in the crop of his hair.

"It's fortunate," Ffamran muttered when he had the breath, his own hands laced across Basch's nape, "that my will truly proves so fickle where it concerns you," and this time it was Basch that recoiled from the force of that kiss.

Too much ease, then, to relax into old patterns as well as Basch's sliding grip, to draw the man back atop him, knees alongside his ribs and the press of his weight a hungered-for sensation across the length of Ffamran's thighs. Basch kissed with alternating ineptness and skill that Ffamran wondered if the man had been as dry as he had. The dart of his tongue on occasion had Ffamran's spine tingle, the sloppy slide of chapped lips on the other had Ffamran smile against him. It was only at the sudden feel of wet grass on his bare buttocks that had Ffamran's awareness of their location return. Near bare-backed under the sun – for he could hear Basch unlacing his shirt – the disorientation overwhelmed him. He flinched when Basch slid both hands between his thighs, questing.

"You're not having me here under the sky, where anyone could see," Ffamran said, and curled to reach for his trousers' constraint about his knees. "Not how I want it. Let me up."

"How am I to have assurance you'll not change your mind again in the time it takes to get back to the summer house?" Basch's voice sounded harsh, hoarse enough that Ffamran's stomach clenched in anticipation. Ffamran heard the rustle of silk on silk, silk on flesh, _flesh on flesh_ , and his next inhalation hurt with the hunger.

"On my honour, Basch."

"The crypt," Basch said. "It's right here."

"…over my father's dead body?"

"Ah—well—that you put it that way, I—"

When Ffamran stood, too swift, he staggered, and Basch caught him against his side. Ffamran did not push him away, instead winding an arm through that proffered elbow, demanding, "lead then, and don't dawdle, I've not much desire for sightseeing today—"

The pace Basch set was enough that Ffamran stumbled, but the other held him upright. The distance seemed interminable across that slick grass with his footing so uncertain; the hall on entry seemed cold after the sun and that unusual exertion; the stairs an awkward climb with his leg beside Basch's, for the man would not leave his side; and at the last, the bedsheets proved cloying enough as he tried to slide that Ffamran ripped them off the bed. He unfurled himself across the mattress, reaching for the pillows at the head as Basch held his ankles aloft to unzip his boots, wresting off trousers and undergarments, if not Ffamran's stockings, to hurl them after the boots.

The tang of sweat and lust hit the air when Basch stripped; his palms so warm as they slid across the backs of Ffamran's thighs, roughness catching on the hair. Ffamran's eyelids fluttered, involuntary, as lips touched the knot of his tailbone, thumbs sliding between his legs as fingers tightened. Ffamran pushed his knees apart, easily across the bare expanse of the mattress, and rocked back.

"Where—" he asked when that weight left, and wished his voice held more steady, "—where are you going, don't stop, I don't know where you are when you aren't touching me."

"I'm here," Basch said, from his side, and Ffamran heard a stopper's release, a sound of liquid and air.

"No, I don't want that—" Ffamran set his shoulders, turned to where he could hear Basch's sudden hard breath. "Rather, I don't want ease from you. If I wanted that, I would entertain a man of leisure, not a military one."

"Ffamran," Basch said, and with such painstaking tolerance Ffamran near lost his desire.

"I said I don't want ease. Don't coddle me, Basch, don't pity me, don't think I can't take it or that blindness means I'm incapable—"

The mattress shifted under him as Basch knelt on the bed, finding him, spreading him further. One hand was slick on his hip, the other dry, and thankfully Basch said nothing for Ffamran had no more words with which to beg – and his pride, oh, his pride, how would it bear going through this again, the explanations, the _admittance_ that whatever his resolve, this would always break him willfully. Lost on that sea of blind sensation, perhaps it was that any stripped of sight would become so dependent on the other senses, even to preferring such an overload – but more like this was his own perversion to bear, to _want_ such breaking as though it could make all other hurts less by comparison.

The feel of that dry head, sliding along his thighs as Basch aligned, proved a heated reminder of his size, his thickness; Ffamran's remembrance was more of the feel of _Basch_ in his mouth than of Noah's last pleasure, and that remembrance gave him no small consolation.

Ffamran held himself tight, _tighter_ , braced against the press of Basch's flesh, and when at last his body gave under that pressure the resultant pain had him cry out, a mindless sound not his own. Colour whirled, a universe of motes spiraling behind his lids; he heard Basch swear but from such a distance, blood roaring in his ears like the slow burn of shame. Ffamran's fingers crept across the length of the mattress yet found nothing to hold him against that disorienting whirl, nothing to push against; palms, then, against his own knees, he rocked back while the pain from that first still wracked him with shudders, and bit his lip against the urge to sound again.

"Will you wait," Basch said, strained, "gods, oh gods, _Ffamran_ ; are you _clenching_?"

"Yes," Ffamran said, through his teeth, and, "all the way out. And again."

"Are you _mad_ —"

_"Yes. All the way out. And again."_

The length of withdrawal felt like nausea; the resurgent recoil forward had Ffamran bite his wrist, his eyes watering, and again, again, the blank pain that ripped through him was marked in cascades of colour, the bone of his knuckles against his eyelids to push as hard as he pushed back, back, rocking between that harsh desire and the steady brace of Basch's palm against the back of his thigh. All the vertigo in the world was meaningless, for in such motion he could not feel it, could not feel anything, only the ache to define him, blinding, deafening, and he – entirely speechless.

He could not keep tight forever. When Ffamran felt his resilience fail, Basch rocked forward with a sudden ease that had him sound, half concerned, all desirous, and of a new depth enough that Ffamran swallowed against the ache of his gut. Two, three free strokes it took for Ffamran to shiver and spill across his own thighs, silent for that orgasm always proved less sensation than the raw pain and more a knot unravelled; a moment more of aching tolerance and he felt Basch's completion spasm deep, a last gritted discomfort to make him prickle with sweat, and long for a bath.

As Basch fumbled through the drawers, from his monotone hunting for a towel, he kept one hand trailing across Ffamran, from his ankle then all the way up to his shoulder without breaking contact, rolling Ffamran's shirt as he passed. Ffamran near questioned, but then remembered his own lust-hasty words – _I don't know where you are when you aren't touching me_.

At that realization, of Basch's concern, a sudden calm lethargy had his muscles relax. Ffamran uncurled and stretched, wincing, and felt the sudden slick spill between his thighs.

"Here," Basch said, awkward, and pressed cloth into his hands. "If you – can stand, I'll remake the bed."

Ffamran rolled to kneel; he did not try to stand, tugging his shirttails down instead. "Is it much messed? Just call the housekeeper when you leave."

The silence that came after that statement felt uncannily more painful than the throb of injury.

"I'm not leaving, Ffamran."

"Well." He found breath, but not the words to speak. "Well then, I'm not moving."

Basch made the bed around him, and after the last sheet's coolness settled across Ffamran's face Basch slid in next to him, a rigid body to lie beside until some thought occurred to Basch and he rolled to embrace Ffamran's motionlessness. Bare flesh proved all muscle, all warmth, his prick a soft reminder that nevertheless had Ffamran shudder, but he could not help the instinct that had him uncurl to measure the length of his spine against Basch's chest. Ffamran could feel the beat of his heart.

"I have potion," Basch said, "but you won't want it, will you?"

"When I hurt," Ffamran said, so slowly it sounded a plaintive cry even to his own ears, "I see a memory of colour, and it consoles me. Apart from that I will hear nothing more on this matter. What will you do, run and report my hunger to Larsa that he can find a use for such knowledge? Will he use you to blackmail me to get his vote, at long last?"

Basch caught his breath. "Why ever would I do a thing like that, lord? When of course you'll give him your vote regardless."

"Of course," Ffamran said, yawned. "I still find it difficult to trust these Solidors, even the baby ones. Larsa asks you to live a lie, and here am I, lost in admiration for your honesty. The Solidors do not make good men of us. The Solidors are vipers, to swallow everything I ever loved and spit back only bones. Will you stay to sleep?"

"It's yet the middle of the day."

"Said as though the sun has any impact on a blind man. I do so need my sleep, or I'll age far too fast."

Basch made a noise of disgust. "You are far too concerned with appearances for someone without sight."

"If I must make a pretense of concern for something," Ffamran said, and felt his lids drift closed, "appearances are as good as the next…"

Lips moved against his hair as Basch spoke, breath to tickle his neck, but Ffamran had drifted into that dark dream before he could consider a response, and felt only comfort that Basch continued to talk, a rumbling murmur until he could hear no more.

.

  



	8. Chapter 8

It intrigued Zargabaath how careful Larsa had been with his orders for the configuration of the great ballroom this time. No candelabra stands crowded guests into contrived clusters; instead circles permitted to form and disband where each could see the other and note who precisely avoided whom. The windows full-open back for the first time in Zargabaath's memory, the night's breeze drifted unimpeded over the southfacing balcony, the chill cut by the over-luxurious fires at the ends of the hall. Every eye within the ballroom could not help but flick a glance at that garden, lit in subtle silver by the paling's overhead shimmer, for the very size of it proved a clear reminder of Solidor strength. Even so many years after their construction, these gardens stood rivaled solely by the size of Ffamran's own commission – yet only Ffamran walked the grounds of his vision, while these gardens, _Solidor_ gardens, stood open to ardent and noble alike.

Contemplating that reticulated landscape, Zargabaath could not help but marvel at the microcosm of Ivalician botany present even these long years after the hungry orphan he had been had first beheld those grounds – yet even he would not think to compare this trimmed tameness with what Ffamran had commissioned, money and vision overcoming those years necessary to truly capture wilderness. When the young man turned his mind towards the creation of such a thing in that year after his crippling, it impressed Zargabaath – so soon after the youth squandered the promise he showed at the Akademy on his traveling whim. Ffamran used trays of sand and wax, sculpted so, maps for the fingers to follow if not the eyes, his uncanny recall naming plants and locations for his landscapers as he touched each scaled seam of crest and terrace. He demonstrated such a refined knowledge of scale and distance for one so young, much less one blinded, that it would be small of a sighted man to begrudge the youth that skill. Such a skill, of vast importance in reconnaissance and navigation, was not to be overlooked. Zargabaath had been of the intent to recruit Ffamran into resuming his studies, for what better purpose to put a frustrated mind to than that of the Ninth, yet Cid's reluctance to release the boy had proved too great an obstacle. That reluctance proved problematic now, that Ffamran circulated in unknowing opposition to Larsa's admirably calm self.

All could have been avoided had Cid been in possession of his senses – but that, perhaps, too much to consider, for this _all_ could have been avoided had Cid been in possession of his senses. It seemed Solidors and their drive for lawful stability would ever be compromised by the chaotic souls of the sons of Cid's self-interested house.

The twinned great fires had the marble shimmer in a most subdued way, a lavish warm gold compared to the night's cool. Zargabaath was not fond of such darkness, for the corners were shadowed, faces distinct but the depths of eyes dark. At Larsa's order, tables had been minimized also, with the food and drink circulated and cast-off crockery collected by a vast recruitment of ardents – and that proved doubly wise on Larsa's part that the great ballroom looked near full at the periphery instead of near empty.

Notwithstanding the false crowd, the ripple that stirred the senatorial contingent present marked Ffamran's entrance distinct, too much an evident turn of heads that Larsa likewise turned from his current conversation.

"He's here," Larsa said, and Zargabaath saw the back of the boy's ears flush at that unnecessary observation. At that so-evident vagary in the youngest Solidor Zargabaath lamented again the need to even deal so fairly with a creature such as Ffamran.

"Lord Larsa will consider your proposal," Zargabaath said in Larsa's stead, addressing that mildly perturbed senator, "when you submit the application through the senatorial forum, as is appropriate. Did not the people of Archades so long ago demand the senate to serve as mediators for any such a thing? We would be remiss to ignore such wisdom and grant this concession without consensus."

For the first time, Zargabaath saw Ffamran walked with a cane, a slender shaft of ivory so carved it looked a folly of a lordling's accessory than a necessity. Gabranth, a step to the fore and the left of the lord, said something half over his shoulder that Ffamran lifted the cane, deft, and sheathed it at his hip as though it were a rapier. As they walked, Gabranth maintained his distance proceeding, and Ffamran had his head inclined as he followed. Of course, Zargabaath realized – the cane to feel a level change, a step, and so unnecessary in this closed room with level surface and the sound of Gabranth's heel striking the floor to guide.

"Ah, but you mistake me," the senator said, his eyes following Larsa's to Ffamran's processional across the hall's expanse. "I merely wished to air the topic for Lord Larsa's conversational entertainment, Magister – a debate between equals here that I could ascertain the wisdom – or folly – in such a proposal before I should trouble the full senate."

Zargabaath said nothing, for Larsa would have to learn to fight these battles. Zargabaath stirred that his heel clicked against the tile, yet Larsa still did not return his attention.

"It does seem my concept of conversational entertainment proves somewhat lacking where it concerns our young Lord Larsa," the senator murmured, "perhaps I should see if Lord Ffamran finds any interest—"

"Lord Ffamran will find very little to his tastes in the topic of this 'income' tax," Larsa said, sharper than he should have, "but what he may find somewhat intriguing is your attempt to inveigle my support for this proposal before you cast your vote in the elections. Do you think my youth renders me incompetent? No man in his right mind would support such a tax, it would render the poor destitute and merchants devious."

"Well, I—" said the senator, taken aback, and Larsa dropped his head in a swift, too-shallow bow.

"It would befit you to consider your strategies and your suggestions in more depth before you contemplate conversation," Larsa said, and somewhat belatedly, "I bid you good night, ser, and may you find pleasant company around these halls."

Zargabaath inclined his head at the senator's expression before he turned to follow Larsa's quick stride into the open space of the centre of the hall, and carefully did not smile.

"Too blunt, my lord," Zargabaath said, "much too much so. You must win the minds of these men."

"Yet he thought he could play me off the importance of Ffamran's vote and veritably informed me of such. The senate grows increasingly bold, Zargabaath."

"The senate is within its rights to be bold, so soon reinstated after Vayne's violent disbanding of their process. An Emperor must hear his people, and the people must have faith in the Emperor's decisions; years of time-testing has proven such a juxtaposition between people and process needs a head and a thousand such voices as provided by these senato—"

"Zargabaath – are they holding hands?"

Zargabaath stopped when Larsa did, under the highest point of the great hall's vault and so exposed there, away from where senators, politicians and nobility formed their edge-hugging clusters. He covered that sudden cessation of pace by collecting a glass of wine from a passing ardent who nevertheless had to scurry over swiftly when Zargabaath beckoned. As he bent to hand that wine to Larsa, Zargabaath followed Larsa's gaze and found himself likewise considering.

Armed only in his gleaming light plate in this close company and thus without his helm, Gabranth looked far too composed for the position Ffamran held him in, an intimacy most inappropriate. Too composed, Zargabaath considered, that Basch must be truly so content to be held in such a circumstance. Zargabaath nudged Larsa into motion again by pressing the glass into Larsa's fingers.

On second glance, Zargabaath felt considerable relief that even Ffamran was not so unruly as to attempt that intimacy, for it was against the back of Gabranth's gloved left hand that Ffamran pressed the bare knuckles of his right, a posture that permitted Gabranth to lead with ease. Gabranth dropped that pose as soon as another guest stepped forth to engage Ffamran in conversation; Ffamran's hand wavered for a moment longer, fingers still seeking before him until Gabranth settled that unconscious stretch with a glass of wine to hold.

"Tis merely how one guides a blind man," Zargabaath explained. "Like so, or with a clasp about the upper arm, and I cannot see Ffamran enjoying being manhandled with that latter grasp. Consider this a promising sign, my lord, that Ffamran allows himself to be so led by Gabranth in these circumstances, for he has stood alone and too vulnerable to the swings of senatorial opinion for our liking."

It also proved remarkable that Ffamran had dressed himself in finery to near match the sheen of Gabranth's fresh-polished armour. The black and gold brocade stood in stark comparison to his usual linen and leather; a cravat, jewels that befit his station at the least, and short hair slicked straight instead of falling wayward across his brow. Zargabaath speculated on whether Gabranth had dressed him so, for he had doubted Gabranth possessed such sensibility for the importance of appearances in an Emperor's court, but who else would consider such for Ffamran? At last check, the young man kept his retainers utterly minimal, one old loyal housekeeper the only ever-present attendant.

"I oft wondered if he were falsifying his sightlessness," Larsa said. "Apart from the slowness of his pace, he had never otherwise displayed such a weakness as needing a guide on the few occasions he has engaged in social contact."

"Even in his youth Lord Bunansa was gifted with a pronounced internal compass, skill with orientation and a devoutly talented system of recall; his crippling could only sharpen such a talent. He is also most concerned with appearances," Zargabaath said, and hoped Larsa's distraction not so great that he would miss that quick recall to protocol, "and rightly so in such company as this."

Larsa steeled himself with a shrug of his shoulders, his posture painfully sharp, and stopped again. "Appearances, yes, Zargabaath. He must come to us."

"Yes, lord. If you will, find yourself another conversation and Gabranth will bring Ffamran to speak to you."

"Not even on my father's throne and I grow weary already with the games of this court."

"Yet where so many would mistrust words, lord, it is this dance that communicates meaning."

"It is a lie," Larsa said, "if of bodies instead of words. I will go to him, for I wish to _speak_ to him, and bedamned if another's twisted mind would make such an action into my weakness instead of my righteous concern for another Hume's wellbeing."

At that Zargabaath could not construct an argument, for Larsa's sudden swift pace inserted him into the circle that had convened in the interim around Ffamran and Gabranth, that latter outside the circle yet duly close to Ffamran's shoulder. Zargabaath followed to stand distant enough from the conversation that he could watch. The men gathered there stopped their communication on the instant, heads bowing most notably not out of courtesy but to meet Larsa's adolescent height. Gabranth touched Ffamran's shoulder, leaned forward to murmur Larsa's arrival and name, and at that, Ffamran's slight puzzlement at the sudden silence resolved itself into his more usual expression. That half-lidded gaze, most lazy, did not match the wry smirk of his lips. Zargabaath had ever found that dualism most disconcerting.

"Lord Bunansa," Larsa said, to cut across that titter of welcome from the senatorial contingent, "I am most pleased you have found the time to attend."

"Time?" Ffamran drawled. "Come, Lord Solidor, a blind man has nothing but time. My absence thus far has been due solely to the fact I simply could not so stir myself to bother to attend; yet 'Branth here absolutely insisted on getting out of the house. Perhaps my conversation is not nearly so captivating as I am want to believe."

Zargabaath clenched his jaw and strove to catch Basch's eyes. Ffamran's words were always thus provocative, and Zargabaath could recall the young man putting Noah into similar straights of awkwardness. Where Noah had always responded with enough of a deflective quote to establish his attendance on Ffamran purely a matter of near-filial friendship - a favour to Cidophus, even – Basch held his silence close enough that even Ffamran's insult to Larsa stood without comment. The man stared ahead with a military calm, unseeing, unhearing; Zargabaath thought he could make out the edge of a bruise above the line of that metal collar – no, of course not a bruise. A lovebite.

"But you belittle yourself," Larsa said, into that too long pause, "we have missed your company most sorely, and not the least for your captivating conversation."

"Such sincerity," Ffamran laughed, "from our young Lord Solidor. Just like the flux, Larsa, a little sincerity is but a discomfort but such a great deal of it may prove quite fatal. You may wish to doctor yourself accordingly in such company, lest this sincerity prove a contagious trend amongst such otherwise fine politicians."

Zargabaath frowned at that; Larsa's shoulders stiffened, his chin up in the air, yet from the titter that swept the circle scarce anyone followed that broad insult. The skin at the corners of Gabranth's eyes tightened though that expression did not shift, and Zargabaath followed that sudden steel gaze to note who in that circle did _not_ laugh. Yet Gabranth did not speak – while Zargabaath knew Basch's hesitation for the risk of discovery his voice presented, in such company Ffamran could not be allowed unrestrained voice. A Magister's usefulness to the Empire was measured by his ability to read the currents behind events.

"I'm quite hurt that I've not been able to entice you out of your retreat attend the festivities," Larsa said, and with a bite in his tone, " _my_ lord—"

"A noble son never hurts anyone's sensibilities unintentionally," Ffamran said, blithe, with his wine glass nearly to his lips—

"—when I've gone to such efforts to ensure your comfort here. Perhaps I've made somewhat of a tactical error, ordering Gabranth to see to your domestic pleasure prior to completion of your civic duty."

And – gods – even Zargabaath's past experience with the snake-tongue of Solidor sons scarce served him in keeping his face expressionless after that, but by all hells, what possessed Larsa to speak so?

From the near-inhuman blankness on Basch's features, the man may very well be wondering the same. He stepped to Ffamran's shoulder, his armour sounding stricken. Ffamran's own hesitation showed only in the hand that held his wine, a tremor rippling through that redness. Fluid tilted too close to the edge that Ffamran near spilled – yet but for that shaken pause, his motion completed without mishap, his swallow deep enough to be a discomfort.

"Quite," Ffamran said, hoarsely, his lids flickering. "Ha, did you hear, 'Branth—" and oh, but Zargabaath near felt sorry for the young man trying to hold his mellow tone steady after that, "the Solidor says- he _ordered_ — you—"

Ffamran licked wine from his lips, and without ado, he opened his hand to let that scarce touched glass fall to the floor. Zargabaath did not flinch even as the others did; the glass rang before it broke on the second bound, the circle of senators stepping back of a sudden as red flooded across the marble to snake along barely-visible seams.

"Quite," Ffamran tried again, in the wake of the shattered moment, "a tactical error on your part indeed, Lord Solidor."

At that Ffamran turned to stride away too hastily, shouldering through another too unwary to get out of his way; and protocol bedamned after such a demonstration - Zargabaath held Larsa's shoulder with an unrelieved grasp when the boy looked to trail after Ffamran's long-legged, careless retreat. Basch threw Zargabaath a glance, still expressionless – something dangerous in the set of his eyes had Zargabaath near call the man's name, but Basch turned, racing Ffamran's wake. Larsa glared up at Zargabaath, but that latter could think of no comforting words; quite apart from Ffamran's display, the circle of politicians stood still, contemplating, shrewd stares all.

Larsa trailed the toe of his boot through spilled wine as blithe as though he did not know what he had done – and perhaps, Zargabaath considered, with the boy scarce out of his first decade he should decidedly _not_ know.

Yet even there, Zargabaath proved mistaken to assume that a Solider ever said a word out of place, for Larsa said to those senators:

"And now we see that fickle temper for which we endlessly delay our just and legal election process, senators all."

Zargabaath snatched Larsa out of the circle before the boy could do himself any further damage, steering him to where a column prohibited approach on one side and Zargabaath's armoured shoulder guarded the other. "What do you think you do, Larsa, to so shatter a man publicly? Not even your brother stooped so low as that."

"How dare you speak to me thus, when I defend myself as best I may and to be met only with Ffamran's blatant rudeness? Do you coddle him so simply for the state of his blindness? Is it pity – that dictates you'll allow him to whatever whim strikes his fancy when I strive, I struggle daily to bring about peace to Ivalice? Zargabaath, Ffamran's vote may be the deciding one but there stands no reason for me to be so bound by such an ill-temper as his, nor shall I be bound by necessary societal politeness when Ffamran does not abide by the same."

The boy responded to Ffamran's wit as though said barbs meant more than the desperate defense of a man bereft of all other weapons, but he responded not as a boy but a Solidor. A mistake, always a mistake for Zargabaath to presume a Solidor scion ever content with the limits of childhood – for in Larsa's response, Zargabaath recognized his own lack, for he had been the one to so mistakenly keep Larsa shielded from the significance of that one fickle lord's opinion.

"Larsa," Zargabaath said, "listen, then, and know that in everything I do I serve the Empire's cause for peace with as much surety and striving as do you; but I had tried to spare you – _you_ , Larsa, the boy I watched grow so straight in his brother's shadow - this last worry –"

"Zargabaath—"

"You think that if we call the senate now, they will cast their votes in your favour even with Ffamran's dominant share and monetary commitment absent, and that a unanimous consent in his absence shall grant you the throne."

"Of course," Larsa said, "several have already stated that this election, held now, would be their preference, yet you have me delay for Ffamran's sake—"

"If you think yourself the only candidate, Larsa, you are wrong."

"Who else?" Larsa asked, tolerant with visible effort. "Three other great houses entertain as I do, but the Ninth informs me numbers are especially scarce there, just the wishful thoughts of rule to fuel that flame. There are no—"

"Ffamran," Zargabaath said, "you overlook Ffamran Mid Bunansa simply because the man is blind, and he does not follow your rules."

Larsa's jaw worked, clenched, grinding, a habit achingly like his father's. The boy's hand hesitated, then brushed back a lock of hair that curled wayward as had Vayne's. So many pieces of the past made this youngest Solidor that Zargabaath ached at times to realize Larsa lived his own thoughts. "But Ffamran makes no effort to entertain political process—"

"All the better for those who would rule through him, and he all unseeing."

"If we call an election—"

"Tis most likely that without Ffamran's vote, Ffamran's moneys, Ffamran's family's vassals to fall to you, your father's crown will instead go to him. The senate's opinion is not so much divided as deplorable, that the senators wish a non-dominant Emperor in order to allow themselves the chance to repair the damages of Vayne's disbanding. If Ffamran takes the throne, the senate will reclaim the Empire for mob rule; this we cannot permit."

"How could you keep this from me," Larsa stated, calm enough that Zargabaath looked away, down, "I would have thought such information most significant. You have been most remiss in your duty to me."

"My duty," Zargabaath said, "is painfully divided between my urge to offer what ease I may to a young boy thrust into a role too great for most men, and my need to serve the Empire as it deserves. I had thought to resolve this without disturbing you, and for that assumption I will apologise, but who would have thought Ffamran so reluctant to bestow that which should have been foregone?"

Larsa paused, his gaze distant. "I presume by Ffamran's unprecedented flaunting of his house colours this evening that he means to stand in opposition, then?"

"I—" Zargabaath rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I missed that, the black and gold, of course. I missed it, such an obvious—yet Gabranth's reports from this past week in residence insist that Ffamran shows no consideration for the matter of politics whatsoever."

"It grieves me that you _also_ think my youth renders me incapable," Larsa said. "Go, then, follow Ffamran and Basch to ensure that the allegiance of the one remains true and the intentions of the other holds only the Empire's best interests at heart." Larsa risked a slight smile then, too sweet after such a command. "Be at ease that I will watch my tongue and manners both whilst you are gone, but that I will pursue this new matter of Ffamran's potential candidacy most doggedly."

It proved difficult to interpret that order as anything but how Vayne Solidor would have intended, to assure loyalty by steel if not speech - a chilling order indeed from a boy. Pacing the length of the ballroom to exit where he had last seen Ffamran's stride take him, Zargabaath thought himself indeed remiss to have attempted to coddle Larsa's last childhood days. He would prove even more foolish to overlook the fact that the boy was a Solidor's scion, twice over to so easily place the Empire's wellbeing above that of another's life.

Fortunate, then, this youngest Solidor would wield his steel for Ivalice's sake and not against.

Zargabaath caught up to Ffamran on the third terrace down to the palace's main gates, Ffamran's pace crippled by his own stubborn curl away from Basch's guidance. Zargabaath could not hide his approach, his tread heavy and metallic on cold-slick tile. Ffamran stopped and turned, lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the paling's silvered glow; Basch halted and stepped to one side, clear, and very decisively placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

At that, Zargabaath's heart ached. "So sure of my intention, Gabranth?"

"It is merely precaution," Basch said, his tone tight. "I would not have Larsa's word destroy more tonight."

"Listen to the glorified _whore_ spout his concern," Ffamran sneered, then spat near enough to where Basch stood that that latter looked stricken under the stars where he had kept himself so calm inside. "This dog won't stop following me, Zargabaath, call him off and send him back to warm your master's lap instead."

"You should be more careful in the choice of your enemies, my lord," Zargabaath said as he took another step, his hands wide and empty, yet Basch did not shift his grip from that sword. "Larsa does not mean you ill, he merely wishes to ensure the friendship between you and your families holds strong."

"Friendship?" Ffamran asked. "Between our families? You damned fool, there has never been any friendship between my house and Larsa's, ever, and if you think that a pair of Landisi whores are going to change decades of despite," – and oh, but this last burned for how Zargabaath _knew_ it— "you're mistaken."

"Will you stop?" Basch growled, pained, that Ffamran laughed, most bitter.

"Does it sting a little?" Ffamran curled his hand around his still-sheathed cane, his grin likewise curling his lips. "Whore, you whore; let's forget you ever had a name apart from that, for Larsa Solidor changes name and role and face alike; you're a whore, and in fact, you're _my_ whore by decree of the young lord Larsa himself. There's no doubt documentation and a whole swathe of reports on how much of a whore you are. I've made it easy for you so far but if you dare come near me again it'll be you on your knees and gods take me if I'll use anything less than a double-barreled shotgun to go hunting the font of your pleasure—"

"Ffamran," Zargabaath snapped, his sergeant's call that Basch started where Ffamran merely sneered, "this melodrama is unbecoming on a man your age. Larsa's slip of the tongue was not an intentional one – the boy's still a boy, to not know what such things mean to a man's pride."

"You think I'll forgive this simply because this serpent's yet to shed his first skin? No, no, Zargabaath, let's not talk of forgiveness, for know that I bear only gratitude for baby Larsa's slipping tongue, that it rids me of whores and parasites in one slick sweep."

"Come back inside, Ffamran, that we can adjourn to more comfortable quarters than this cold step; we'll send for some mulled wine and talk as men, if youth so disturbs you, for we still have this vital matter of Archades' future to consider."

"Yes," Ffamran said, "you do so well to remind me of my _civic_ duty with offers of such _comfort_ ; I do declare, Zargabaath, you're very nearly seducing me. Do all the Magisters whore for Archades, or just the Landisi scum? Did Vayne set Noah after me also? And oh, oh, how low do you stoop – for it strikes me now that Basch is not even Noah's brother and instead some two-gil butch bought from a filthy street corner and doused in perfume." His voice wavered that Zargabaath looked away. He had no desire to watch a grown man fight not to weep. "Did anyone love me?"

At that the silence did stretch, achingly cold. Basch's outward breath steamed, a heavy curl on the air, visible pain that Ffamran could not see and that Zargabaath wished he had not.

"You think me rendered incapable," Ffamran said, calm, and drew his cane, reluctant as though that motion more than he wished to admit in company. He turned his back and let the cane's tip trail across the next step down, steel-tipped ivory an uncomfortable rasp on the stubbled stone. "That if you keep me floating in some kind of whore-fucked bliss I won't mind that this plenitude is dependent on maintaining Solidor goodwill. Know this, Zargabaath, that thus far I have kept out of Larsa Solidor's game entirely of my _own_ goodwill, for I was quite unaware of this flesh-licking bargain Larsa thought he wrought. I could not support him, ever, for you forget my brothers, spent on Solidor sins, and my father, my _father_ ," he spat the word, "gods."

Basch took those few steps easily as Ffamran felt his way, drawing level, and stretched his gloved hand to find the man's brocaded shoulder. "Ffamran, please—"

"Don't," Ffamran said, chill, "you dare," with bare licks of fury, then to scream that his tempered voice shattered: "touch me."

In the resonant space after that shout, Ffamran tugged his vest straight, and said, quite softly for the way Basch recoiled: "whore."

"What do you mean to do?" Zargabaath asked. "You're not in your right mind, Ffamran."

"No one in my family has more than a passing acquaintance with sanity. Notwithstanding the entertainment that mania provides me in my solitude, I admit that I find Larsa's parties have such a dearth of good conversation. Perhaps I shall reply to some of these invites that insist on flooding my mail. Thus far I've had the housekeeper burn them without concern, but seeing as my midnight hours will be so achingly bare of activity, I shall see if another's party offers me more amusing diversions." Ffamran laughed then, the tilt of his head awkward for all the lightness of that sound. "Would you believe, Zargabaath, some madmen think I should put myself forward for the throne?"

The night air did nothing to muffle the stealthy sound of steel against scabbard, that Ffamran's spine stiffened visible. He continued to descend though, finding that next step and the one after, a measured motion. Basch's boots scuffed as he moved to insert himself between Zargabaath and Ffamran, and Zargabaath could not meet the man's eyes. He looked instead at that steady steel, silver flame in the paling's light.

"Let him go where he wills," Basch said, his voice thick, raw. "Even if it does not suit your long-laid plans for Larsa. You owe him that much."

Zargabaath hissed and folded his arms. The chill ate into the joints of his armour, relentless, yet the weight of that plate would always seem too hot. He sweated, and he shivered, however contradictory such would seem; he stared at the steel that Basch held against him so willingly.

"I had not known insanity a catching disease," Zargabaath said. "Stand down, Basch; my plans are not for Larsa, but for the Empire. Any actions committed here will be for the Empire – by what measure do you judge your own bare blade?"

"You judge yourself exempt of judging, for the sake of the Empire?" Basch asked, and risked a swift glance over his shoulder to gauge Ffamran's retreat. "If this were for the Empire you would call the guards to execute a traitor – yet you will not, for there is no Emperor and Ffamran is no traitor. All this is – a disturbance to plots and ploys. You insist only Larsa will give Ivalice the peace it so craves; I say if your electoral process is so enlightened then trust in it instead of removing all opposing contenders."

"You've kept his company, Basch, you know his will is selfish –"

"Ffamran's will is as selfish as an ordinary man's," Basch said. In the cold glow, the man's nose appeared too red even for the cold, his eyes pained. "It is false hope to ever consider a monarch better than the mob. All authority is equally flawed."

"Your very brother tasked you to care for Larsa, and now you sabotage his rule already? Truly, you take your role as kingslayer to heart."

"You call me kingslayer?" Basch laughed, a ripping sound, and checked Ffamran's progress to the gate again. "You mistake me, perhaps, for my brother; apparently I am nothing but a whore."

"What do you mean to do with your steel held against me?"

"I intend to see Lord Bunansa home. Alive. That is all this steel seeks to assure."

"Do I consider this your resignation?"

Basch's easy smile was lopsided, crooked where Noah's had been quite straight and scarce. "I am not abandoning my duty, Zargabaath. I am merely standing by my devout belief in your electoral process as evolved over centuries of trial and error. If Larsa is convincingly right then he shall win his vote regardless."

"I suspect that your argument may very well win Larsa's apology for his hasty tongue; it seems most well constructed to appeal to the boy's damned idealism and bedamned to the years of corruption also built into the process."

"Idealism," Basch said, hesitantly, "yes; corruption, but at least it is Hume corruption and thus comprehensible. You and Larsa would bring peace to the breadth of Ivalice but such noble ambitions I have never held, Zargabaath. I could die most content with the knowledge that I had brought peace to a single soul."

"Go on, then. See Ffamran home, if that will ease your sense of honour, and then go stand before Larsa and justify yourself. I avow what befalls Ffamran from this day is on your head, but that whatever should come to pass will not be from my hand."

At that, Basch nodded curtly and sheathed his blade; he turned without further comment to take the steps three at a time, racing to the street gates as though his armour did not weigh him. Zargabaath sighed and found his way back into the relative warmth of the palace.

It would be most disconcerting to have to explain this to Larsa: that some men lived for the needs of a nation, and that others were content merely to be needed.

Zargabaath doubted Basch even recognized how deeply depraved that latter love could prove.

.

  



	9. Chapter 9

One day passed to match each of those days forsaken to Basch's arms.

Ffamran did not count the days by dawn or dusk, for he forgot how to count. Days, measured in desperations, gave him no succor, for past or future it all nevertheless felt like today.

In a newly empty bed, Ffamran dreamed being young again, of the tepid luxury of Archades bathed innocent by the soft light of dawn; he dreamed of the southbound freedom of zu against a scorching sunset, of pressing his back to another's in blankets as a way to fight away the cold and the immensity of the sky. Under the stars it had proved near impossible to resist the urge to assert himself, themselves, flesh on flesh in a desperate attempt to shout to the sky, those stars, here, _we're here_ , we're not nothing, _we matter_. Ffamran dreamed of traveling, of swallowing the world; he dreamed of solitude chosen by right instead of by fate. Ffamran dreamed as though he had the right to dream, until the thought of sleeping again in an empty bed drove him to beg that there were no masking lies with these, his new acquaintances, of what his requirements for compliance were. A flesh-licking bargain, yet this one drafted by his own tongue. The best he could do was forget how to count, to pretend that this was not an admittance, a wrongness, his own evil.

In his lucid moments, it grieved Ffamran that he could find only privation within the heart of such sudden abundance. He bit his lip bloody holding back the name – the names, gods, names and lies and _games_ from both of them, brothers or bastards both - until blood and smoke and pain drowned names, fragmented recollection. Ffamran drifted in white-hot madness, the sky ever without stars, and not even the feel of sheets on his knees, of burn, of hunger or thirst could give him a path he wanted to follow, for everything led back to life. What he wanted - to stop breathing because every inward breath came heavy with scent, corruption, sweat soured with entreaty.

_I have simple tastes_ , Ffamran told these somewhat shocked senate subversives, most blunt, when he first entertained their presence; these acquaintances became his hosts in turn, to become, he suspected, his captors - for when he demanded, _only the best,_ indeed a simple taste _,_ they provided only the best. Of mana root distilled beyond the point of bitterness and so likewise potent that he forgot how to sleep; of white smoke that his exhaustion became only another weight, like his limbs, his head on his neck, the twist of his gut; of minders, supple first then harsh when he rejected those, that he did not have to seek or strive to find willing flesh. To keep him quiescent, they gave him everything he demanded, and in return he surrendered flesh and will, gratefully. Not his, these limbs so marked with lust, carelessness and collisions. Strange that he could be so uncaring to trade himself so easily, for his flesh and his will had ever been the only aspects he could claim some right to control.

Ffamran could not walk; vertigo swelled to a deafening dizziness until he sweated, panicked, clutched at nothingness and lost himself in silent terrors when nothingness clutched back – who was there? – he could not remember, could not know or see; Ffamran could not walk, even to walk _away_ , even when he suspected he should. A void lived within him that he could not have enough of smoke or searing, could not sate that hunger. Before he had kept away his vertigo with motion, ceaseless pacing of his own motivation, yet now the spin of the world sucked him in. He allowed it, supplemented that tide of spin, world, sorrow with smoke, with sex. He could not have remembered where he would have gone even if he had left this house not his; indeed, why should he leave, when here he had most everything he wanted? A truth, that he was blind, helpless, worthless, trapped! – yes, but he had always been those things and only his self-deception had ever led him to think otherwise. What better place to admit such, for here some use could be found in his surrender. All that he had dared dream of before - that vision of freedom, the scent of an Ivalician sky well away from Archadian swaddling – all a lie, a lie, all a lie, a lie to lay with and fuck him just like the others.

Only one of these new acquaintances proved someone Ffamran could nearly know - Gregoroth's son. Ffamran remembered the boy from before his blinding for they were of an age. Strange to hear that deep voice from a face Ffamran remembered as so young. Years passed Ffamran so slyly, for he proved unable to even map the growth of his own stubble, his shoulders, the set of his mature jaw, and how that rankled that even his own maturity could only ever be another lie. Preferable to exist, then, without memory or imagining, a vessel and the prevailing wind; better to pretend everything had always been this blankness, that no face had ever existed to smile for him. What matter politics, what matter Ivalice, what matter anything when it was all meaningless under the stars?

They spoke to Ffamran at length to convince him otherwise, continuous, demanding, Gregoroth's boy as vocal as his father had been; of Archades and rightfulness, of freedom and legality, of justice, ever justice, justice, as though the world had a sense of _fairness_. They could not understand his willful disdain. What did it matter to him if this new lot of senators had a motivation of vengeance or one of righteous concern? _We need you coherent,_ they told him, and he all unwilling for he wanted nothing, and why should it prove so _hard_ to get them to give him nothingness? _We thought you an ally,_ said with too much concern that Ffamran did sneer at the falseness of thinking him worth such a title; _that you should be as wary of Solidor wiles as we are_.

That truth burned, that everyone knew…oh it burned so, gods, it never healed. Whether it was for pity or fear or misguided desperation his acquaintances did what he asked despite their own concerns and kept him supplied and well-minded. They did keep trying to talk when he did not want to listen; had he known a way to strike himself deaf he would have done so.

_Keep him alive_ , the last order given to his current minder. _Keep him contented. He so wishes to be used – then we'll use him._

Disgust. Such disgust in that order that Ffamran laughed for what felt like a day and what may have been barely a moment, until dizziness pulled him back down to the bed and blankness claimed the remainder.

His minder drew him out of that blur with a day of dryness, to lift him when he could not stand, shower him when he could not tolerate the feel of wetness like slick on his skin. Ffamran was dressed, and when he still could not walk, carried like a trussed mark to serve his adversarial purpose.

This: not Tsenoble's main strand with the susurrus of tree leaves from that concourse absent. To there: not the Solidor palace with the scent of those surrounding gardens lacking. The paving here proved sleek under his thin-soled shoes, his disorientation complete; he was walked into a room that sang with such echoes, that sweltered with such trapped heat that Ffamran felt worse than blinded. He had to ask, plaintive - he had asked, so many times in smoke-sleep, begged, for endings for smoke for sex for surcease let it end – and they answered, or rather, Gregoroth's son answered, curt:

"The chamber of congress," and also, "control your rancor, my lord. Larsa Solidor is in attendance."

So Ffamran behaved; he behaved for Basch no doubt stood at Larsa's shoulder. Zargabaath's voice rang clear in Larsa's case, and Gregoroth's boy – no, not a boy, no more than Ffamran was still a boy – spoke even stronger in Ffamran's own name. Ffamran behaved behind his closed lids. He even spoke as though sanity was still in his possession, prompted when someone stood to shout immorality at him. He rose against that blank whirl of the world unwavering, the frantic tug on his wrists of those who flanked him, and he dictated, as though the words were an apology yet he could not know to whom.

"You who see in me only corruption think instead of he who so commanded and thus condoned; a mere boy, whose orders demanded immoral action in the name of Solidor righteousness. He shows all Archades his own shame. Shall that shame become Archades' own burden, if you thus condone him? Judge a man not by the immorality of his wants, but by the immorality of his actions."

The whispers in the wake of that proved a susurrus entirely unlike wind through leaves, such an enveloping sound that Ffamran had to sit and near cupped his ears to disappear. He shook with the hunger for the sky, for the air here burned with thickness. Gregoroth's son next to him whispered, _my lord, you could be a great man if you allowed yourself so._

_Allowed himself_ , said as though the man sat all unknowing that Ffamran proved incapable even of dressing himself. What greatness anywhere could be had without command over his own body, his own freedom to walk where he willed – and gods, he would have traded any of it, all of it, throne and Archades and an eternity in hell for a chance to see the sky again.

Time passed interminable; when the senate disbanded it was with a great swell of sound, of sudden free speech that echoed like a shrapnel-burst of incomprehensible babble. Ffamran let his minder take him with a grip on his upper arm, to steer him out, and he could not hear, could not hear even his own footsteps to get his bearing –

—yet he could hear that other, heavy footsteps too quick for politeness, heavy metal on the tile, and only two men were left that would wear such weight in gentile company—

"Ffamran—" said from behind him, "wait—" said as though he had any command over his own motion, "you aren't looking well—" said as though Ffamran could _see_ to be concerned—

"Stop," Ffamran ordered that burly minder that near carried him forward, loud enough that his voice carried fore and behind, "and kindly ensure I face Gabranth – for it is known that a true friend only stabs a man in the chest, not the back."

"You can't stand this," Basch said, stopping only when he stood so close Ffamran could smell the man's sweat, the tang of his metal. Ffamran wavered and the world did not permit any steadiness; it was only Basch's too-close heat that had him stand firm, for gods curse him further if he would fall on the man. "You look like death. You can't continue with what use they put you to. Are you being drugged? Is this your will?"

"You think I allow them to use me in their bid for the throne?" Ffamran asked, and heard his own voice as languid, as callous, as childish. "Do you think me so unwitting as being unable to manipulate such a thing – that all I am is a man to be manipulated? Your presumption of coercion here belittles me. Perhaps all this is my idea, for I'd submit to any indignity to stop that Solidor from sitting on his brother's throne."

"On the contrary," Basch said, "I did not think you so unwitting. I thought you certainly witted enough to avoid this idiocy."

Ffamran stepped back and near fell, an ungracious motion that would have had him blush had his anger not filled him first, for Basch had dared to reach for him then, dared to touch him, gloved hand hot even through Ffamran's shirtsleeve when he sought to clasp of his wrist as though they stood still as friends. Ffamran's recoil proved all instinctive, his very flesh unwilling.

"You think this idiocy," Ffamran said. "Such an apt choice of word, Gabranth, for I do indeed find something idiotic about the behavior of those one ceases to love."

"Ffamran, it's been a fortnight and you've not returned to your residence—"

"You're counting the days. How quaint."

"—if you need me—"

"I assure you," Ffamran said, turning, "my requirements are being quite abundantly filled."

Before he found two steps, the minder had taken his arm again, steering; behind him, Ffamran heard Basch speak, that voice suddenly rough, bitterly angry.

"As you will, my lord."

_my lord my lord my love_

—said only once, muffled and blurred and half-lost in laughter, Basch's lips against the back of Ffamran's neck, indistinct, the word hoped for, stretched for, perhaps only a desperate mind filling gaps in what the ears could hear, an untruth wrought of Ffamran's own deception–

There was a particularly luxury in self-reproach, Ffamran knew - for after his blinding his father's silent withdrawal had taught that lesson well. For as long as a man blamed himself, no one else ever had the right to do so.

Nevertheless, it seemed far easier to blame Larsa.

.

  



	10. Chapter 10

With some mixed gratitude for his latest wound, another taken in Larsa's defense, the day had passed Basch in a haze of pharmaceuticals, so thickly layered that Basch wondered even as he tolerated the doctoring if comfort could ever be found in such a fog. As his experience those first few hours did dictate, for Basch the world's confusions were significant enough without any additional overlays, and he eschewed the painkillers in favor of sleep.

Attempting to complete paperwork that evening did not prove a wise decision, for Basch watched his own pen wander across the pages submitted by Gabranth's subordinates, confusing counts and finding conflicts where there were none. In his apartment, so high above the main streets, Basch could at least hear that the city had quieted again, the rabble swept from the streets by guards in Imperial grey and Solidor black-and-green. It was that renewed martial law – senate dictated, not Solidor ruled – that had Basch still bed-bound from an otherwise mild wounding, for the paling had been set to prohibit any magicks. Perhaps it pleased Zargabaath to put Basch abed until the resolution of this conflict, for without Gabranth's years of knowledge, it did seem that Basch's optional silence could not serve these days. Too many times Basch had been accosted by senatorial contingents wheedling, scheming or demanding to know if Larsa had yet to set a date, invariably to find himself stuttering to answer, never to understand the significance of the slightest nuance in his tone when he replied.

"What would you have us do?" Zargabaath had asked in response to Basch's complaint, in the privacy of Larsa's car after guards and Magisters alike had carved Larsa a way through the press of the crowd. His words were far harsher than his hands, stripping Basch to his smallclothes despite the restriction of the car. Larsa's expression held only the appropriate concern for an injured captain; Basch nevertheless flinched away from his eyes when Zargabaath exposed that deep slash across his thigh for inspection. The bolt had gone astray, fortuitously, that he would not risk laming. The bruise swelled apace, blackened beneath that blood from the diverted force on his buckled armour. "We must be bound by process, Basch, lest we consider ourselves righteous enough to act at will – as did your brother, and all those other Magisters who did fall before your arrival. We are agents of law, and thus must be the most bound."

"I would have us act," Basch replied, "not react. Act, that the victims within the city will be preserved."

"Your difficulty," Zargabaath said, pointedly, "is that you will not admit that it is not only your sworn duty but your heart that knows that Larsa should be secured on the throne by now; had you handled Ffamran with greater skill—"

"Your difficulty," Basch interrupted, with dubious calm for the bloodied weep of his thigh was filling his boot most unpleasantly, "is that you will not see past the mask that I wear to understand I am _not_ my brother; I do not 'handle' people."

Zargabaath had done nothing then to respond, but on settling Basch back in Noah's apartment, Zargabaath had delivered considerable documentation on the coups attempted by both Solidor elders before Vayne's actions had won, true or treacherously. "This bloodiness is not an unusual event in Archadian history," Zargabaath said, blunt, "familiarize yourself at length, for your ignorance continues to prove a liability."

It was on reading one of Noah's old summaries, a report on the resolution of the conflict surrounding the death of Gramis's eldest son, that Basch found his eyes swimming at the construction of his brother's hanging 'g.' The shape proved such a familiar scrawl that it had Basch ache more than the throbbing inflammation of his thigh would justify.

_Noah_ , Basch found himself writing, in the spaces surrounding his brother's font, _how could you stand the constraint of this life?_

But Basch considered further - _yet you could not stand it, could you?_

The meandering of his thoughts, in copious amounts of blue ink scrawled beside Noah's black, failed to console Basch in the slightest, that he wadded up the whole report and limped to discard it in the wastebasket by his single window. His current inability to pace briskly Basch blamed more on the over-tight bandage than the wound beneath, and he freed that plaster to bare the dark pucker of stitching to the chafe of his bedsheets. As he settled himself on the bed, his brief intent to drowse proved but a precursor to the true sleep that ambushed him.

On wakening with the morrow's dawn Basch found Larsa in attendance, perched on the one chair in the room and sifting through Noah's old reports with a distracted expression, smoothing crumpled papers with a flat palm. Someone had bound Basch's wound again, better this time that the bandage sat with more comfort, and Basch wondered at either his exhaustion or complete trust that had kept him sleeping through such handling.

"For those on the outside," Larsa mused, with scarce a glance to see if Basch had wakened, "we assume that a conspiracy is a perfect clockwork scheme, the men behind such cold, evil, precise; everything that a day's worth of ordinary existence is not. We would consider that it is a game forever closed to us, and us the flawed ones trying to make sense of results. We work backwards, Zargabaath and I, and you also Basch, the Ninth – ever backwards, trying to piece 'intent' together out of 'result'. We cannot determine why Ffamran chooses to act how he does; his motivation may not parallel those of his fellow conspirators. Both his logic and his daring is beyond my ken."

"My concern is that you use the word 'conspirator'," Basch growled, clearing sleep from his throat, "does Ffamran not conform to this 'process' that Zargabaath avows we must all abide by?"

"He does," Larsa says, "and he does not. He addresses the public with rousing challenges against Solidor rule, and has no concern for winning the senate when it is the senate that will elect him; yet his conspirators rush in the wake of his words and hasten to comfort senate, lords and merchants alike, that Ffamran will be controlled once he is on the throne. It seems Ffamran would set Archades to burn, and the peace for which so many have died would amount to nothing. Should he have demonstrated any other will, I would feel willing to meet him with my merits to be measured against his own. Instead," and Larsa's voice wavered, "Basch, I am afraid that whatever Zargabaath tells me of the senate, whatever these latest reports state, that I will fail simply by losing Archades to such chaos. Not even my brothers' assorted and attempted coups had required soldiers to take to the main streets. All evils had before been constrained to the senate."

"Oh, Larsa." Basch let his head rest against the headboard, a headache already settling across his temples. "Even should this election not fall your way, you will still be alive, and thus you will not fail. There is no shame in admitting that success is not guaranteed; that success is not a matter of rightness, or fairness. Ashelia did learn this lesson, at the last I do think. I know that for as long as you live, you will strive for peace – there, find the measure of your success."

"Is this how you survived Nalbina? How you wear your brother's name without heartache?"

"There is heartache," Basch said, smiling. "Such heartache, my lord. Nevertheless, I live for purpose, and here I find one, howsoever frustrating I also find your Archadian games. Archadians would make a saga out of the most mundane of actions, and think themselves higher than all others simply because of those words." From the expression on Larsa's face, Basch could see the boy had not understood. "Consider, Larsa, all patterns of Hume life are the same regardless of the backdrop, and the life of a Hume is much as the life of a wild beast. Escape from the marlboro king; fight the coeurl pack; tame the Gizan bunny. Being cast to the dragon to sate its hunger; casting others to the dragon's teeth to spare yourself; standing shoulder to shoulder with a friend to defend. Run with the wolves, become a wolf, and invariably, become the alpha wolf. This is the sum of all tales that constitute life; it is only Archadians and royalty who think that words and laws make their tales of more import than another's, that gives one the right to dictate and demand the death of another."

At that Larsa considered for some time, to say with a surprisingly impish smile: "Two things do occur to me, Basch. Firstly that I should take great heart by the fact that you continue to stand beside me whatever your distaste for Archadian ways –"

"Yes, my lord," Basch said, "for know that it is my belief in your intent that keeps me by you, not my brother's dying word – "

"—and secondly, that your omission of 'love' from your recitation of the lives of wolves a most significant point."

That smile seemed so surprising, Basch realized, for it was not often that he saw Larsa smile like a child and not like a Solidor. It took some consideration to not stammer when he next spoke. "I am not one who believes in that particular fable, my lord. Love is sentiment, not even worthy of a saga. A wolf procreates, not loves; the latter is a distraction that often breaks a man."

Larsa waved his hand, dismissive. "If there is one thing that frustrates you with regards to Ffamran, it is that you are not free to act as you would, a man on your own – am I right?"

"You mean with regards to Archades' current turmoil? Yes, my lord. The resolution of this would seem simplicity itself if we could be rid of the constraints of due process, whatever Zargabaath's argument to the contrary."

"Lawmakers must keep the law," Larsa said, "and lawbreakers to be punished by the former. Yet on our journey for Ashelia's sake – no, for Ivalice's succor, I shall say – we did learn that boundary not so clear as Zargabaath would have it marked. He has not the privilege of the experiences you and I shared in the company of lawmakers and breakers alike."

"That is especially true, my lord."

"I will consider your request then," Larsa said, and before Basch could query what request, he smiled – his Solidor mask in place once again. He smoothed the papers he held, holding them close to his chest. "Rest well, Basch, that your wound does not take an infection before we can lift the paling for healing."

Basch would have protested that – set to sleep like a wayward child or a doddering old man – yet once Larsa absented himself, Basch found himself again exhausted. On attempting to decode the latest of word from the Ninth with regards to the senate's likely vote, Basch drifted on that tide of words into sleep, half-dreaming he could hear footsteps receding down the hall.

It was well approximating sunset when Basch roused again, starting as though a dream or a touch had disturbed him – and indeed it proved a combination of both, for tapping Basch's nose most impudently with a curled roll of paper was a man both a nightmare and a massive disturbance.

Basch rubbed his eyes clear of sleep and pain – yet even as the sunset shafted through the window, the pirate continued to languish at the end of Basch's bed and the viera, as ever arrayed in full battle armour and calm, still stretched her length at the window's edge. Stubborn imaginings, to resist the light of the sun.

"Margrace?" Basch hesitated. "Fran?"

They did not look like a dream. The pirate proved tanned even darker than Basch had ever seen him prior, hair bound in a most-long tail that suggested he had not clipped it since their precipitous departure from Bahamut's shell, ever-present glasses tipped to the very end of his nose. Fran had new additions to her armour, more bone-jewels and shells bound through her hair and dangling from the lowest point of her ears, and tight-wrapped leather cords about her gun-firmed forearms. Even more-so than their appearance, it was Margrace's perfume that decided Basch as to their reality, for that heavy oil had ever marked the man's location within battlefield or city's bound.

"Hark," the pirate said, fingers of his free hand aloft in a familiar exclamation, "he does at last acknowledge us, my little rabbit. Little Larsa did state that Basch's wounding one of his thigh, not of his memory, although one does suspect perhaps it is age that numbs the Ronsenburg's recollection—"

"Basch. Are you well?" Fran asked.

"Well enough," Basch said, "thank you, although still bewildered at your presence."

"Such bewilderment is most understandable from 'Gabranth', perhaps," Margrace continued, as gracious as though Fran had not interrupted him, "for Archades and her aerodrome resides firmly under the lock of martial law since yesterday's riot. Yet Basch should not be so bewildered. It is the curse of age, then - it seems a difficult thing to tolerate, to grow old. I am most thankful that I shall be spared such a fate through the sheer charm that pervades my flesh."

"Not to be forgotten is our own bewilderment," Fran said, somewhat reproachfully from the tilt of her ears, "and that not caused by aging but more by your sudden resurgence. You were disappeared, Basch, and word of you eradicated. Even Ashelia would not speak of you through all Margrace's attempts at courting her post Bahamut's destruction. Toasts were downed for your lost soul, Margrace and I losing mornings to mourning; yet when Larsa's word did reach us at today's dawn of your great need, we hastened to find you neither dead nor nearing it, but instead languishing in the leisure of one lost in love."

"—what?" Basch asked, and, " _Larsa_ sent for you? What _love_?"

"Ah, ah," Margrace crooned, and grinned, "your face falls at that as though such admittance is a horror beyond ken, yet Captain, tis known that it is love which distinguishes Hume from beast – embrace the word for, as I may state as one much enraptured with word and act - love is so lovely, like flying, and as dire, extreme and unlikely as one such as you at long-last falling."

"Duty he calls it instead, Margrace," Fran said, and now even her lips curved in a smile, so rare that Basch rubbed his eyes again, "love is duty, Basch would state – yet reversed, duty is love. Witnessed, the pair of us, that you have most enjoyed it when your duty proves most difficult, Basch fon Ronsenburg, or even as in Ashelia's service nearing impossibility, for the more difficult it has been to love your duty the more so you have believed in both duty, and love."

"What my little rabbit means," Margrace said, leaning forward with that curl of paper aloft again that Basch batted it away from his nose, "primarily, congratulations, and complimentarily, we are entirely unsurprised that you consider civil war an appropriate form of foreplay."

Basch growled, snatched at that prodding piece of paper that the pirate had to exert effort to tug it free again, his expression injured. "The riots are neither my idea nor a civil war."

"-though undeniably foreplay? - for it is the other young man that seeks to woo our staunch Captain with his willful weaponry." Fran pushed herself upright to saunter to Margrace's side. She tapped his chin, a swift reprimand. "Your bedside reading languished then, my pretty pirate, if you did not thus comprehend the situation."

Margrace placed the roll of paper into Fran's waiting palm and made a moue of distaste. "Tis difficult to read when one has to fly without pause in response to a Solidor's summons. As evinced within, the Captain has a startling penchant for verbosity that I would not have determined. Although it seems my observational skills are suspect, for I also did not determine Basch's penchant for youthful male flesh. I am filled with expansive regrets, Basch, for had I known we could have found considerable ease through our otherwise insufferable travails in Ashelia's wide-hipped wake."

Ignoring for a time that the insufferableness of their travails had been in no small part due to the pirate's attempts to woo the decidedly narrow-hipped Ashelia, Basch said, as calmly as he could: "Your words are insulting to the extreme. As ever and always, pirate."

"Ah, ah," the pirate smirked, and ran his hand through dark curls with far more extravagance than was necessary for such an action, "and this is how Basch greets me after I flew myself and my _Little Bird_ to the very bone, racing to oblige his very own heartfelt wish for our presence—"

Margrace's monologue receded from Basch's attention as Fran unrolled the paper in her hand, smoothing the crumpled sheets against her stomach. He saw blue and black ink, side by side, and of a sudden, his stomach curdled.

"Larsa gave you that," Basch interrupted. "I would not have thought the Solidor scion one to rummage in garbage, for that is distinctly where I recall placing that missive."

"You were ever one to discard that which is of most value, Basch," Fran said, and tapped her pirate partner on the crown of his head to draw his attention. "As you have not read this sufficiently, I require your full attention, young Margrace. If we are to act in an informed manner then this verbosity is a necessary evil for you to suffer, and a just one after you have inflicted so much of your own rhetoric on others."

Fran's ears flicked as she wet her lips, and Basch held himself immobile against the urge to snatch the paper from her hands and discard it again, perhaps this time into an open flame.

" _Noah_ ," Fran read, " _how could you stand the constraint of this life? - yet you could not stand it, could you?_

Yesterday another attempt was made on Larsa's life, and again I the one to catch that bolt, though this time in the flesh of my thigh. The wound is not threatening, deflected so, but such is the tension within the city that the paling has been set to smother all magicks, curative or otherwise; thus I lie here with my head a-spin from pain and pills, writing a letter to a dead man.

Zargabaath marries the soldiers of House Solidor to the Imperial guard, that the city's unrest be kept constrained, yet I can only speculate that the green-and-black of the former standing beside the neutral grey of the latter serves only to bestir those numerous young men that wear House Bunansa's colors bound about their right arms. "Tis only the young free men," Zargabaath notes, disdainful, "those with naught better to apply themselves to, thus troublemaking in the streets proves their only joy. Should you see a soldier wearing his lord's house colours also with Bunansa colours on his sleeve, then we will know true rebellion has arrived. You note that none today, despite their numbers, did have the gall to strike at us direct?"

Yet that gives me no comfort, for the bolt that puts me abed today was from another assassin on the rooftops, and I cannot help but consider that Ffamran's reluctance to emerge from his protector's residence is due to his own suspicion that out there is a bolt with his name on it, instead of Larsa's. For even I, so unknowing of these Archadian games, know that when Zargabaath gave me his word that his own hand would not strike at Ffamran, that contract guarantees me nothing, for he could give his order to one of the Ninth's assassins and never lift his own hand, and still feel himself both righteous and abiding.

Yet Zargabaath was right, that night when I stood against him for Ffamran's sake, and my heart felt so tight I could near not breathe; I feel as though all ills that fall on Ffamran now are my fault entirely, for the man was my duty however unexpected – indeed, he is my duty still, I cannot help but feel that I should be at his side. In my absence, my lack of skill and wit to constrain him, he falls prey to those that keep him ill for their own surety. When last I saw him, in senate before the tension on the streets grew, Ffamran could scarce keep his own feet from what smoke clouds his reality, and that did set me aching for he had always placed such pride by his will to stand alone.

The dichotomy that is Archades divides me likewise, brother; how can they place such importance on the will of a single man, and yet guarantee his right to exert that will based on the decisions of such a limited multitude? I do not recall much of Landisi electoral conditions but I do recall the orderly progression to the booths, of landowner and lord alike; here instead it seems the streets fall to the will of the mob while those with the sole right to vote play games of words. Does no one see that lives are lost, daily?

"Tis that you are a man that appreciates a clear target," Zargabaath tells me. "A visual evil, marked in the recognizable flesh of a beast. You do not like to strike at a man, for his flesh marks him as your brother."

At that I gave him such a look he did apologise for his poor choice of words, yet he insisted the moral was sound. Perhaps this is truth, for it seems I can find worth in the face of any man I must draw my blade against. I still feel the pain that did rack me to set my steel against yours, likewise when I sent Ffamran's father to return to the earth. Yet those blows I did strike in Ashelia's name, in Ashelia's truth – and thus in the righteousness of her intent I found succor for my actions. What righteousness consoles me now? – there is nothing, for Zargabaath would have me believe that righteousness can only be found in a person. Yet Larsa's will is as devious as all his opponents even if his intent is not, and I am bereft of even a comrade now, for Zargabaath considers me most suspect in all my actions.

I can find nothing in your own writings, Noah, that show me how you were able to detach man from law. How does one serve only the law, when it is faceless and abrupt, and as foolish as the men who make it? I have ever judged on the merits of his decisions, not his skill at hiding behind a mask of words; Larsa would be honorable enough if he stripped away the process he must go through to win his vote. Larsa's intentions are truly pure, and thus do I continue to serve him, yet his very methods have me awake at night, considering. This is all a game of semantics, I do cry at Larsa, at Zargabaath, that they nod most pleased as though I a recalcitrant child who has at last understood.

It is semantics instead of swords, yet those words become far harsher blades – for from his retreat Ffamran issues incendiary statements as to the will and strength of House Solidor that has the streets succumb to chaos most regular; in reply Larsa stands before the senate and speaks with calm righteousness that wins him as many votes as Ffamran loses with his insanity. The senate, nobles and elected officials both, are all merchants at heart, and despite Ffamran's riches the chaos he incites does not serve the will of any merchant. Larsa, despite his Solidor blood, looks all the more appealing and should he call a vote now he may very well win his father's seat – yet the very process of this election is filled with vast insanities. Larsa cannot call the vote unless all candidates are present, unless he has unanimous consent to do so, yet Ffamran will not leave the cover of his protector's roof, well guarded within and always well attended, and for as long as Ffamran resides in that house, Gregoroth the younger will not allow Larsa to call the vote.

There are times when I consider myself more alone than Ffamran must, and I do sorely miss his conversation for even his silences, both forgiving and undemanding, gave me such comfort. Here what words I speak meet only with Zargabaath's reproach or Larsa's blithe and clear tolerance. I will admit I miss my companions in Ashelia's quest, for there we had action to bind us together, not words to shatter us. The pirate and the viera especially missed, for their deft battle presence that I felt my back always safe, and for their willingness to flout all law in the face of true rightness. Had I their willingness to act so independently I would rise from my bed on this instant and likewise kidnap Lord Bunansa from his place of residence, and deposit him within the chamber of congress that this childish farce could end. For this is childish, far more so than Ashelia's desperate battle, for Ffamran's are the actions of a man caught frozen six years prior. He has never seen himself a man, only a youth, willful and trapped.

It should aggravate me that it is Ffamran's vicarious will that fragments Archades, and thus risks what fragile peace Archades can give to Ivalice – yet I am neither aggravated nor irritated. I do feel substantial remorse for my part in Ffamran's acrimony, and perhaps that is a part of my willingness to understand the man – yet it is more than that. As your own writings indicate, Noah, Ffamran is not one of an imprecise wit; that his casual malice causes such an effect across Archades states that his directed well-intentions would well change the world – yet of what I find most appealing of the man over all of Larsa's idealism is that Ffamran has no wish or will to change the world. He wishes only for his own right to autonomy against the constraint of his blindness.

It is my especial grief that of everything I would give the man, I cannot give him that. Such is not a thing to be gifted, but fought for and won.

His own words still ringing in the atonal hum of Fran's voice, Basch blinked against the blur of his vision. Fran turned to the last piece of paper, to decode that scrawl in the margin there.

" _The very manner of your death, Noah, does tell me that you of all would understand this matter. At the last, you did choose to trade your death for your beliefs, not for another man's will._ "

"You," Margrace said, unable to keep his silence for even long enough for Basch to draw breath, "are undeniably constrained by your urge to protect every little bird that falls into your lap, Captain. Must you ever find yourself maidens in distress to assuage your own right to manliness?"

Basch bit back the urge to curse. "How do you measure your manliness instead, Margrace? By the hair on your chest instead of the worth of your actions?"

"On the contrary," Margrace rebutted, a grin across his lips, "by the length of my—"

Yet before he could continue, Fran spoke: "There are two great tragedies that repeat in all Hume existence. One occurs when a Hume does not get what he wants."

"The other?" Basch asked, for Fran's silence extended as she gazed out the window, the sun well below the city's jagged horizon.

"The other occurs when a Hume gets precisely what he wants."

"By that measure," Margrace declaimed, his fingers splayed theatrically across his own chest, "no man can ever be happy. Small wonder that my life is a concurrence of endless miseries and brief joys in your company, my little rabbit."

"Yes," Fran said, and smiled, such a startling expression across her lips. "No man can ever be happy, yet he strives for it. Through striving a Hume defines himself, that he will not accept the world nor himself and instead would shift the course of the stars. Acceptance and contentment is concurrent only with stagnation."

"I would apologise," Basch muttered, "that Larsa drew you to Archades with such a thing and I hope you will find your exit easy against the blockades. I know not how he found you—"

"Such infamy, we are not hard to find," Margrace said, mockingly modest. "Ashelia was oddly glad to be rid of us. Fickle as most of womankind, whatever her newfound queenship."

"—nor how you brought the _Little Bird_ past the paling—"

"She is anchored on the outskirts with Nono on watch," Fran said, "and we used a stone to teleport in, direct to Larsa's waiting guard."

"—but what Larsa thought to do but give me some companionship, I know not, and your presence here can only complicate matters."

"Have you Larsa's contract, my little rabbit?"

Fran reached into her bodice and removed another curl of paper. "This is a mark," she said, and unrolled it. "Ffamran Mid Bunansa, for the kidnap of, and a sum well-considered for such difficulty."

"Well considered indeed, especially that we must split the bounty three ways." Margrace patted Basch's shin, the uninjured leg. "We must thank Larsa with especial care of his mark, but you, Basch, may thank us after we rescue your fair maiden from his tower."

Basch strove not to snatch the paper from Fran, and saw affixed at the base of it, not only her and Margrace's mark, but a most distinct 'Basch Fon Ronsenburg' also. For a moment he was struck speechless, that he could scarcely speculate if it was Margrace who could forge his signature, or - perhaps more likely - it had been Larsa.

"Gods," he managed, "gods, what game is Larsa playing now?"

"He's taking your advice, despite that you threw it in the garbage before asking his opinion." Margrace grinned. "Tis what youth tends to do with their seniors, although you may have thought otherwise from Ashelia's actions."

Fran tapped with long claws along the length of the bedspread over Basch's leg. "Bare this, if you will. We have curatives that you may accompany us tonight, for we could not attempt this without your knowledge of Archades."

Basch threw back the blanket and shrugged himself to sit upright as Fran delved her numerous pouches for her potions. Blood had stained the light bandage again, the pucker of the flesh distinctly raised. He looked up and caught Margrace's gaze, affixed to where the tight cut of Archadian smallclothes provided scant modesty. The pirate's gaze flicked up a moment later, and that dark face proved untouched by any blush, only a wide grin.

"When I did say I measured my manliness by my length, I did mean by the length of my repertoire." Margrace cleared his throat. "Substantial lengths of epic poetry, if you should ever have need to avail yourself of such."

"Gods," Basch laughed, surprised himself by doing so, and sucked in a sharp breath when Fran poked at his inflamed flesh, callous with competence. "I've missed you, Margrace. And you, Fran."

"At last," Fran murmured, smiling, with her eyes focused on what Basch hoped was his bared scar, "we stir in you some gratitude."

.

  



	11. Chapter 11

One beneficial thing about the restlessness that flooded Archades' streets was that it permitted the Margrace, Basch and Fran easy integration in that flow that headed towards the younger Gregoroth's manse. Perhaps it was the cessassion of Archades' aggressive conflict that kept the streets so full, Basch considered, of young men recalled at last to home from distant posts, of soldiers bereft of more worthwhile purpose.

Basch kept his eyes on Margrace's broad shoulders as the pirate led the way through the crowd. Fran kept a tight hold of Basch's wrist, pacing behind, the press of the populace threatening to jostle them apart. Basch checked behind frequently despite the firmness of her grip, for if something would betray them to people's recollection, it would be Fran – specifically, her ears. Those were bound flat, the brim of an Archadian lady's hat tilted low across her brow. She smiled when she caught his eye, to return to gracing the crowd with her dark stare.

"Why so many?" Margrace asked, when they paused at a street corner, ducking into the archway of a shop to watch the stream of Humeness. "Elections never get this invigorating in Rozzaria – but that, I presume, is the comfort given by a true monarchy."

"They have metal," Fran said. "I scent it. Blades and knives, guns even. Not all, but many."

"That can't suggest a happy resolution."

"They wish to use force to push the election's date." Basch checking his own concealed weaponry: his workman's garb concealed the pirates' liberal bedecking of his person with assortments of the thief's trade. He could see pacing guards scattered through the crowd, few and far between, impotent should the mob turn from restlessness to action. The sight of that familiar garb had him ache. He should be with Zaargabaath and the rest of the captains, coordinating something to break apart this mob. "They are provoked by the possibility of shaking free of the Solidor's control. Gramis was worse than Vayne, funneling exorbitant funds directly into the military. Vayne benefited, but it was Gramis that laid the foundations; Larsa's recall has put this multitude firmly out of gainful employment. Ffamran offers a way to break that militaristically fickle Solidor hold. Gregoroth the younger has friends in vast numbers and Ffamran wins more with his money; perhaps they stir the mob to sway the merchant guild votes by pressure."

"I far prefer the Dalmascan way of politics," Margrace said. "If you can make a stone glow in the dark, kingship is yours. Or queenship, as it were. I far prefer my airship, in truth. The complexities of this system make little sense to me – it sounds a rightful rule by mob vote."

"Archadians enjoy crippling themselves," Fran said. "Watchers to watch the watchers who watch those that think they go unwatched."

"My little rabbit, I am sure you run in such figurative circles precisely to befuddle me. Rest assured your great beauty has already befuddled me beyond befuddlement's befuddling."

"Fran speaks true," Basch said. "Archadians cripple themselves; I find a grain of sympathy within me for Vayne's endeavor. One cannot move within the constraints here, be the movement right or wrong. Only the senate has the right to elect a king – yet the senate is elected by the vote of the people's representatives. Those representatives are elected by the vote of the merchants, citizens, lower classes to represent the rights of each Archadian precinct and principality. Then, to make matters undyingly complex, nobility, landholders and merchantry can buy themselves and their vassals and underlings individual rights to vote within either the upper senate or the representative's sphere."

"Watchers to watch the watchers who watch those that think they go unwatched," Fran repeated. "It is a Hume tendency, this, a system to replicate trust, much as you use systems to replicate magics and motion; systems to replicate day when it is night and night when it is day."

"It is a need to control," Basch said. "These Archadians, who wander the streets with violence in their hearts, feel their voices unheard. I feel their unrest is less so for Larsa Solidor and more so for the freedom such violence seems to grant. Ffamran and Larsa represent nothing more than unknown and known quantities."

"Archades makes me itch." Margrace said, eying the set of the moon through the paling's shimmer. "The night passes, and we linger in discussion of arbitrary classifications – Archades and Her incessant preference for debate infiltrates even us men of action! I would be quit of here soon. How you stand it," he shook his head, rueful, "Basch, I think your brother had the best bargain of the pair of you."

"Better dead than Archadian?" Fran pulled the brim of her hat lower. "Surely any life is preferable to none?"

"Bah, you know I ran from my own Rozzarian constraints – as you did depart your own home, Fran. Life is for freedom, not for such self-embraced crippling. The right to act by the precepts of one's own heart –"

"And should one's own heart be corrupt, suspect, weak?" Basch tested his thigh. Fran's curatives had left it stiff, like a week-old wound not quite full healed. It would hold.

"Then those other men free to act are subsequently free to act to end that corruption." Margrace grinned, a flash of white against his tan. "But this is how a pirate lives his life, Basch; if you are to _act_ as a sky pirate, even if it for this one night, then allow us to convert you. Though I suspect you will not need excessive persuasion, quite a shame, for Fran and I are both skilled at persuasion."

They stepped back into the crowd's movement, angled contrary this time to cut across. That proved wearying above and beyond the distance it took to walk, draining, a constant buffeting of flesh against flesh. Basch kept his eyes down this time; every gaze seemed a challenge, and neither he nor his two companions wore colors on their arms to align themselves with a side. It was a sudden relief to find themselves free of the flow, a bare street before them with a few pairs of stragglers walking to join the flow that streamed towards the ferry.

"This isn't the way," Basch said. The pirates contined forward, finding an alley with the such ease of familiarity Basch was instantly suspicious. The stench in that lane spoke of rotting fruit and stale air, and thankfully nothing worse.

"It is too slow, and assuredly quite boring the other way." Margrace pointed to the sliver of sky visible between the buildings. "Let us take this other street, one much more suited to our path."

"But—the manse is on another level. Do you propose to fly without your ship?"

"Fly, or climb, with that rope we have concealed about your waist," Fran said. "Why - whatever did you presume its function?"

"I thought—Ffamran—"

Margrace laughed. "Ah, well, you should consider it your welcome right to appropriate the rope for whatever purpose you see fit to _after_ we salvage your man from this nest of serpents; until then, its use is solely to climb. Or will he truly prove so vilely unwilling to accompany us?"

"I do not know," Basch said, and, "he's not my man, but merely a duty – an obstacle on the way to my duty – "

"Of course," Margrace said, not bothering to disguise his grin. With a motion almost a bow, he bent to push aside the collection of trash cans with a great sweep. The wall he cleared was a bare brick one, stubbled with outward protrusions of brick in an attempt to engender an aesthetic. The effect, Basch saw instantly, for any with remote trace athleticism, was of a stepped ladder to the rooftop.

"Of course," Fran said, and tucked gloves, hat, Archadian skirt-hem and boots into her broad belt. Her claws clicked on the brick as she readied herself.

"A leg up, my dear?" Margrace moved behind, to linger close.

"Certainly not," Fran said, "should I capitulate to your touch on my behind so easily then?"

"Such a tease," Margrace said mournfully, as Fran powered herself upwards, lithe and languid. Basch followed his gaze, sighting a length of bare leg strangely intoxicating for all Fran's usual garb bared more. "You next," Margrace said.

"Should I be concerned for the visual sanctity of my own behind?"

"Yours is not nearly so provocative," Margrace said, admirably smooth. "Not in those trousers."

The climb was enough to set Basch's heart speeding, yet it was not until he stood on the slanting rooftop of the building, a good three floors above the street, that he truly started to reel.

This vertigo had not been a thing that assailed him in his youth: he could recall climbing trees, scaling cliffs, thinking only of the heights and never of the falls. It had been Nalbina that afflicted him with this, Basch forced himself to acknowledge, those endless aching days suspended over that threatening black drop. Still, he had avoided such weakness through his time with Ashelia's party, even across the Rift with its great chasms, through the Mount with its falls, even Bhujerba had not afflicted him so profoundly. Instead, Basch considered, it was Archades: the lack of a single reference plane. The ground, _true_ ground, was far below in the Sochen Palace, Archades' birthplace. What arched above was ingenuity, architecture, engineering and excessively defined classism. The level they stood on was not ground, nor middle, not top, there was more, far more, to be climbed and dared, risked and raced –

"Consider each level singularly, each roof the only roof," Fran said. "Each step the only step. You shall not fall – at the worst, I shall draw my gun and shoot you with a float mote. The paling does not prohibit those, though it does detect their use. I would prefer not to expose ourselves thus, but for your sake I shall."

"I am comforted," Basch said, dryly. "Aim for somewhere insensitive."

"Not your heart then," Fran said, and touched his shoulder lightly.

"Possibly his head?" Margrace grunted, hauling himself over the parapet.

Basch scrubbed his face to hide the grin, and found himself wondering how he had managed to survive months in their company. Ashelia, he reminded himself; sternness to offset the pirates' wit, and that reminder proved merely another, of that last duty this pair helped him resolve.

The worst of the next was not their rapid pace across the rooftops, set by Fran with an assured step now barefoot, claws gripping tile and shingle too deftly. Even the leap across alleys and like gaps did not prove the most stomach turning. The worst came later, when at last they stopped, near the edge of a great fall to levels below; Margrace posed himself on that brink, staring into the void with great machismo, while Basch settled himself near a chimney more for the solidity of the structure than the radiating warmth. He struggled to catch his breath. Strange he should be so taxed by this pace, unweighted by Noah's armor.

Their pause was at the narrowest point betwixt this level and the higher, not a taxi path that cars could cut their vision. Great steel chutes of services, plumbing, electricity, myst-conduits, beribboned these paired back ways liberally. Fran affixed a bolt with the rope uncoiled from about his waist, and set her small crossbow to her shoulder; as she sighted across that great void, releasing the trigger on a firm exhalation, Basch followed the whipping unravel of the rope and realized what, precisely, they would have him do. The rope flexed and danced on the current of air from below, angling up, sharply. And that would prove the most daunting: that soaring gap between levels that the pirates seemed to think they could cross with mere mechanics, no magic for assurance.

"Sky pirates embrace the fall," Margrace said, uncomfortingly and unprompted that Basch wondered at his own expression. Margrace took the rope in one hand, already wearing the plated gloves that he had handed out prior; the rope, he had assured Basch, was woven with mythril that it would not fray, but fingers were another matter. "It is not Noah Gabranth that dares this, remember; it is the fugitive-turned-pirate Basch fon Ronsenberg."

"Basch fon Ronsenberg is dead," Basch said, his voice gravel.

"All the better." Margrace grinned over his shoulder. "Dead men can't die again."

The pirate lifted himself with ease, slung one leg over the rope that the crook of his knee caught it securely, and started to draw himself along that rising angle. At the halfway mark Fran nodded, gesturing Basch over. He eyed the great knot of the rope at her feet, looped about an outcropping of the roof to draw taut.

"I will wait here," she said. "The pair of you – the three of you, even – will be able to void discovery with explanation where I would not."

"What will you do?"

"Asides from guard the rope?" Her smile was sly; with her toe she nudged the pack on the rooftop. "I will keep myself busy. Consider this a surprise for your return."

There was nothing else to do then but to set his own gloved hand to the rope, knee of his uninjured leg wrapped over, and climb. At least, Basch considered, he did not have to look down this way, at least there was no cage. He could trust his own flesh not to fail him where he had never trusted the chain that suspended him, in Nalbina. The breeze from below was strangely warm, like a beast's exhalation. In return for that ghasty benediction, Basch steadily dripped sweat into the void.

Margrace permitted him no speech or surcease on the other side, drawing him up onto the nearest rooftop with a firm grip, the roof that of a subpower station; he set off with loping grace towards the residential aspects of this, Tsenoble's lowest level. Basch could not pause lest he lose sight of Margrace's black-clad form in the sudden dark. That darkness was limited to Tsenoble's heights, where nobility and senatorial members could afford to pay to stifle the paling's glow in favour of approximating true night.

Too swiftly they were deprived of rooftop and forced to pace like acrobats along the edge of those high brick fences that mapped between the great manses of this district, unlike the density of Ffamran's home address. Margrace held Basch by the wrist. When Basch's failed balance looked to topple the pair of them, the pirate's swift competence always served as recovery. Basch could scarcely even see his footing much less the depth of the fall. He only found some small stability once he had surrendered his trust to Margrace's skill in this realm.

When Margrace next permitted a pause, it was on the boundary fence of their very destination. The house was in full residence, the lights blazing warm on all three levels; Basch could hear the musicians on the ground floor terrace, and company circulated there to appreciate the sparkling view of lower Archades. Te sharp clink of crystal glassware carried where the conversation was rendered into a low, speechless murmur.

"That's it?" Margrace whispered, right in Basch's ear, and recoiled. "Gods, man, you're sweating a fear storm. You can't pay court to nobility in a state like that."

"Forgive me," Basch growled, "but I am not here to pay court, and bedamned if I _was_ , for the routes to achieving such heights are not usually across such great gaping chasms."

"For men like you," Margrace shouldered him, with that misplaced physical affection that ever did characterize the man; Basch grabbed him altogether too closely when the plummeting black darkness below the fence threatened, "achieving such a thing is _always_ across a great chasm. Otherwise wherein lies the challenge?"

"That's it," Basch said, to Margrace's first query; the second did not merit response. "The correct house. Now what?"

"Now we wing it."

For a moment, Basch wondered how the pirate proposed to fly the distance across those manicured gardens to the house deprived of their rope. His recollection of the vernacular was accompanied by sudden revelation.

"You mean us to simply walk in, don't you?"

" _I_ will simply walk in," Margrace said. "Al-Cid Margrace, fourth son of the King, himself a Margrace firstly and secondly a great dynastic lord and ruler of all Rozzaria; I have no qualms for courting nobility. _You_ , humble muscular servant, must scout and assure me a clear route to escape once I have your paramour – apologies, your _duty_ languishing in my arms. I take it this Ffamran does languish? We may be at an impasse if he expects me to do the languishing, for my swoon is most unpracticed."

"They'll not believe you," Basch said, shortly. "A Rozzarian male traveling without his contingent? You should have brought Fran, at least then you could claim to have had one aide in attendance."

"They will believe me," Margrace said, "as I'll be in their midst and in finery to match. In Archades, rightfulness is determined merely by one's appearance; Fran is notoroiously difficult to dress on short notice, for her height and fussiness both are unmatched throughout Ivalice. Let us descend."

"I can't see the drop."

At that, Margrace scuffed a brick from the top of the parapet; the muffled sound it made when it struck the grass before had the pirate nod, satisfied. "Not so great a leap of faith this time, my man. And off!"

Basch should have expected the pirate to push him; nevertheless he fell, hard, his thigh stingingly sharp of a sudden. Margrace's catlike landing next to him had Basch swallow his next breath. He should hit the pirate, truly, but no nobility would pass muster with a black eye.

Margrace led the way around the perimeter of the manse, a slow jog against that dauntingly high brick wall. Only the front boundary was fenced with wrought mythril, and that great open expanse had an additional layer of House Bunansa guards standing at attention, beyond which Basch could see the street full of the motion of the mob. Those guards woke Basch's concern, for since assuming his father's mantle Ffamran had disbanded his military contingent, his right to do so. Any devout guard-captain would have set scouts on any perimeter, even these three abutting only other manses.

"Fortunate the mythril men all face outwards, eh?" Margrace said, over his shoulder. "Think they'll patrol?"

"Without a doubt," Basch replied. "Get in the house then, if that's the aim. I propose we find a back door."

"At last, you think like a pirate—"

Basch cut away from the pirate's drawl, crouched low to set his thigh throbbing again; he raced to the house, grass giving way to the encircling pebble path, pebble ceding to paving and the spill of golden light. He did not look to see if Margrace had kept apace, but heard the pirate's sharp breath behind him. He dropped his pace to a walk, a saunter, a tread that tried to say to that glaring golden light: I have the right to be here.

"How do you do this?" Basch asked, over his shoulder, "I feel on the verge of heartbreak every second."

Margrace skipped to draw abreast, and nodded ahead to where two figures rounded the manse's far corner. "You were right on the patrolling, see the light catch on the weaponry? Those are guards. Feel like breaking some heads instead of your heart?"

Basch saw, considered - yet unconscious bodies would call attack far sooner than a simple disappearance would. He glanced over their workmans' garb, black but not threateningly so; his own somehow substantially dustier than Margrace's despite that they'd taken the same path. Humble muscular servants, indeed: they were lacking only Gregoroth's embroidered insignia to grant them rightful presence on this property. "Have you wine?"

"Pardon?"

"Have you wine? Somewhere in your numerous pockets—?"

"Mahdu. Though I think neither bribing nor imbibing to be preferable solutions, but this is your heist."

As Margrace bent to rummage in his inner shirt, Basch removed his shirt and left the black cloth crumpled. The pirate drew a silvered flask and proffered it, stalling when he saw Basch's shirtlessness. "What —"

The mahdu Basch dropped on top of his discarded shirt; the pirate Basch tipped back into a convenient niche. Basch held his cheek close to the other man's, feeling stubble there. The pirate's hair he pulled free of its tail, flipping the length forward. From behind the pirate would look enough like a girl with Basch's own body hiding the pirate's breadth of shoulder. Basch turned to present his scarred back to the light and waited, the measured rasp of the guards' tread on paving signifying their proximity, a cessassion their quick pause, and then, their slow resumption of pace away.

"I hadn't heard 'Roth was hard taskmaster," one of the guards said, a voice surprisingly deep. "Did you get a look at his back?"

The other grunted, noncommittal, and said: "If he slacks off to kiss the kitchenhands on a night like this, no surprise why he wears the whip's cloak."

It took a good few heartbeats for the footsteps to fade away. "Basch," Margrace whispered, "those bastards took my mahdu."

"Soliders have an appreciation for time well spent," Basch said, gathering his shirt. "If you follow them around the corner I suspect you may find them in a similar niche sharing hard-earned mahdu. And preferable that they drink warm madhu than lie in a cold grave for a reason as fickle as ours."

"Evidently your years as a solider have taught you what fights to pick."

"It will be harder getting past the servants, especially from outside in. Even with guests bringing their own attendants, they will know each other."

"Then," Margrace indicated - again that Basch groaned – _up_. "A window, conviently close and attainable now the guards are away. I shall get myself some garmentry from one of the resident's wardrobes, you can start scouting the lay of the house. Mug a servant, if necessary, for his shirt that you can pass freely."

"What am I looking for?"

"Find a bedroom," Margrace said. "Preferably Ffamran's, as I'll have a hard time justifying why I'm taking him elsewhere. Know the exits from there, or find a path of ease to take to get us back to the ground, then we run to the fence, climb, and retreat. Yes?"

"Too simple."

"For a plan, it should suit you, for you are quite simple." Margrace set his hands to the stone wall, seeking a handhold. "I seem to recollect your own plan to free 'Amalia' involved a spur-of-the-moment capture to gain a free lift to the warship, and considerable amounts of winging it therein. You must learn you cannot rely on me to think your way out of every prison. A hand, if you don't mind, my muscular servant?"

Basch near threw the pirate up the wall.

From there it did indeed seem nearly too easy, for on poking his head outside the door to the room, Margrace sighted a servant on his own, bundled with fresh linen and en route to the guest suites. The towels served as gags and ties both, and Basch won himself a servant's shirt as Margrace clad himself in fresh-pressed bestarred finery.

"No jewels," the pirate lamented, "but ah well, perhaps it shall be the fashion in Rozzaria this season."

"Avoid Gregoroth," Basch said, shrugging into the too-tight fit of the shirt. The collar was choking. "If you know his face to do so. He'll know you've not been invited. How you'll avoid him puzzles me, for Ffamran will be in his company. Gregoroth keeps a close tether on him."

Margrace paused, fingers plaiting the spill of his hair straight. When he spoke, he seemed almost sad. "Larsa informed Fran and myself with no small elaboration of what rumour says of Ffamran's…tastes…these past weeks. In addition to the breadth of my shoulders I have also in my possession rare Rozzarian white weed. You may not know how these things come to pass, but I shall not need to approach the man. Two whispers to a servant with a canny glint in his eye; four merchant lordings will approach me where I choose to site my locus; within the hour eight lords will be there; an additional half-hour on top of that, if our would-be Emperor Ffamran has not detached himself from his political pleasures and that latest monstrosity they call his minder to make my private acquaintance an intimate occasion, I will eat that shirt you wear so fetchingly."

Basch drew a breath, and was surprised to find it stuttered in his throat, tight.

"Don't lead him by the hand," he managed. "He detests that, though he'll not say it. Take him by the elbow, or with your arm through his."

"Ah Basch, Basch, I know you like a brother, man. Your eyes betray you every time." Margrace's own dark eyes were sharp, the set of his lips soft. "You've trusted me thus far. You trusted me with Ashelia's virtue and her queenship both. You trusted me with your own flesh, your own life. You've leapt blind across rooftops, Basch; swung across the void between these false Archadian-made worlds; held my arm as we walked through the dark across false-fenced boundaries; you've trusted me to lead _you_ blind, and yet now you balk? _Trust_ me with your duty, just for this one necessary moment."

"I would come –"

"You know your face cannot be seen, or Larsa will be connected to this."

"I know," Basch said. "I thank you again. Yet if something goes wrong—"

"It will not, for we have no plan for it to fail. Everything will be as it is meant to be. Seek on the third level for Ffamran's suite, and be prepared to forcefully evict whatever you find within."

"He would have chosen himself something on the lower levels, surely."

"Yet if I were to keep a blind man both dependent and secure in my house, I would room him in a penthouse with a single flight of stairs for access." Margrace shrugged. When he opened the door a flood of music entered, distant enough through the floor's thickness that it sounded of chaos instead of regularity. "Look to the sky, Basch."

There was nothing else to be done then; in Margrace's absence Basch could not stall, could not rethink these events. He set his shoulders against the tightness of that appropriated shirt, checked the binding on the unconscious servant in the anteroom's cupboard, and set himself to wander.

Each passing servant had Basch's stomach seize with anxiety. This was worse than battle, far worse, for he knew his position on the field and the worst that could happen; he knew nothing of the territory within this house nor what his discovered presence– as Margrace had said, _Larsa's_ presence – engaged in such an illicit occupation would do to the state of Archadian tension. He remembered that surging, illtempered, well-weaponed mob that kept pace outside the manse. They were calling for Ffamran's return to the senate's halls that the election could be held. Even if Larsa won, with that proportion of Archades' general populus astir, Basch could not speculate as to what would happen. Even if _Ffamran_ won, he could not speculate. The rule of the mob was not of any more wisdom than that of a single man; there was no rightness to either way but that there must _be_ a way.

Caught halfway up the first flight of servant's stairs he found, Basch found himself called into service in the kitchens. He followed the imperious matron that directed him back down to the sub-basement's stoves. It seemed Margrace was also right in assuming that arrogance won over rightfulness; Basch kept his expression diligently blank and merely moved when ordered, and his ignorance and illegitimacy were overlooked. Fortunately he was sent nowhere near the evening's celebration, out on that front terrace; instead directed to delivering trays of warmed supper to the rooms of those guests that would stay the night. They were sent in pairs, and Basch lagged behind the other, his favouring of his wounded thigh hardly feigned. As he settled the tray and collected the previous crockery, getting hungrier for the torment of rising smells of deliciousness, the other would turn down the bedsheets, change the linen, and set the fireplace to warm.

Basch did not risk enquiry as to Ffamran's rooms, lest that mark him a clear imposter. He waited until someone spoke of the Lord Bunansa; one of the more vocal kitchenhands bemoaning the future Emperor's benightedly damned bedtime preferences, citing the highly fastidious selection of his feeding requirements as further evidence of his fussiness. Basch found that strange, for through that distant fortnight he lived in continuous residence at Ffamran's summer house, he had not known the man to be at all selective with his food. Nevertheless he stepped swiftly to grab the tray at which the kitchenhand had gestured.

She did sneer at his speed, noting it where the rest of the busy kitchen did not. She looked Basch up, a mocking glance that lingered across the breadth of his shoulders, something that did indeed mark him as distinct from the few other men that served. "What are _you_ , the gardener called in for emergency service? You probably volunteered, didn't you? Whatever you've heard, Lord Bunansa's not in his rooms for you to attempt—"

Basch thought he kept his expression calm, but the girl flinched, a full step backwards that she knocked the stacked cluster of plates for cleaning behind her, the resounding upset uprorious. The shout of the directive matron sent Basch, thankfully, out of the room. A second leapt to follow him, a maid that had a much more pleasant mien to her than the one in the kitchen.

"After you, milady," Basch said, and bowed as best he could with the tray and a limp; the maid giggled, flicked her skirt at him and said: "So courteous, my lord, I'd almost think you want something from me."

In the end he did not have to knock her unconscious, for Ffamran's fireplace proved to be full and blaring already, whatever Ffamran's professed preference for the cold. "I'll do it," Basch offered to the maid, who looked young enough to be daunted by the entangled male flesh that sprawled across the bed. Clothes lay scattered across the floor, not nearly half of them of a size or refinement to fit Ffamran. "You take the old tray back, I'll…throw them out and fix the linen up."

She scampered to obey, gratefully, leaving him alone. The first thing Basch did was to open all the windows, full length ones with extravagances of wrought mythril as balustrades that would serve quite easily as ladders to the latticework and shrubbery below. A three floor climb, but nothing compared to the other climbs – and falls – of the night's escapades.

The first unconscious whore Basch manhandled, grunting for the weight, into the bathtub. He contemplated filling it with water that the whore's own drugged unconsciousness would drown him, but morality – no, _necessity_ intervened, for dead bodies were trails to follow. The second one, lighter, went into the shower instead. Basch barred the bathroom door with a chair – two chairs, for the muscle that would eventually wake behind that door – and stripped and bundled away the fouled bedsheets that he would not have to look at them. He paced the length of the bedchamber, the anteroom, the solar, following the path of that cleansing chill breeze, back, again, back, again –

Before he drove himself mad with inaction, Basch bent to pick up the strewn clothing instead. He found himself smoothing midnight and gold brocade into crisp lines, touching the unraveled threads along one sleeve where Ffamran would have brushed against something unseen. Perhaps the roughness of a stone wall, the metal edge of a door's latch.

The door to the anteroom opened, sudden and too soon; in the bedroom, Basch froze until he heard Margrace's accented drawl. He scarce could relax, for Ffamran's voice followed. That familiar sound had him rub at his eyes, his mouth, the chapped skin of his lips, the nape of his neck; he stopped to stare at his palm and wonder what, by the gods, was possessing him to act so.

When he stepped into the anteroom it was to find Ffamran with his hand in Margrace's hair, a hold cruelly tight to claim the pirate's lips with a kiss more bite than affection. No part of the rest of them touched, just hand in hair, just mouth on mouth. Basch's eyes blurred; he stared, to see instead of that kiss, discrepancies. Ffamran was thinner, sickly, better dressed but worse for it. Margrace was not happy to be so held, for the angle of his neck was a discontent one. Basch realized then Ffamran stood a good few inches taller than the pirate, surprised to see that. Near at tall as Fran, then.

Ffamran made a noise, hunger if not contentment. Basch could restrain himself no longer, and stepped forward to grab at Ffamran's shoulders and wrench the man bodily away from the pirate.

"You're awake then," Ffamran said, disdainful for that manhandling come unasked. His eyes were closed, lids crumpled; the set of his lips sneering. His cheekbones were uncommonly sharp, under his eyes shadowed. "I've found someone likely to stay awake for longer. Get your associate and get out."

Over Ffamran's shoulder, Basch saw as Margrace touched his lips, fingertips coming away bloodied. His expression was rueful. "Little princeling, you have a surprising bite. I think you'll not want to send this one away, not just yet."

"Unhand me," Ffamran said, motionless. "And you, Margrace, can make all the suggestions you wish but I'll be the one to decide. I've had ample fill of this one, I want him gone."

"Ffamran," Basch snarled, _shuddered_ , "what in all the hells do you think you're doing?"

At the sound of his voice, Ffamran did not flinch, nor shift, his expression exactly the same sneer. He shouldered out of the grip, seeking fingers feeling at his shoulders where Basch's hands had rested as though striving to find some confirmation of that touch.

"Gods, I'm not hearing _your_ voice again, am I? I thought I was rid of you weeks ago. Burned you away, so to speak." He laughed, a courtier's meaninglessness. "You ever have recurring nightmares when awake, Margrace?"

Margrace moved to the windows, checking the drop. "My lord, if I may make another respectful suggestion, should you find yourself so prone to nightmares you might consider lessening how much you take of the smoke."

"Strange for someone like you to say something like that."

"It's a matter of quality over quantity," Margrace said. His pace carried him swift, silent, a circuit of the rooms that he could determine their security. "The quantity of product you've been indulging is nothing compared to the quality of what you could be having."

"Interesting comparison," Ffamran said, "for I've ever been one for quantity over quality."

"Yes," Margrace said, regarding the chairs at the bathroom door. "I can see that."

"Your name is familiar," Ffamran said. "Margrace. Margrace. Where have I heard it?"

"My Rozzarian father, my lord –"

"Bah, Rozzarian politics may interest me a modicum more than Archadian, but that says more of my level of interest than the extent of my knowledge. That's not where – wait. I know. You were the pirate that assisted Ashelia Dalmasca to take back her throne and end Vayne Solidor's life."

"I see perhaps we have a common acquaintance, my lord. Basch fon Ronsenburg, perchance?"

"Remind me not to thank you," Ffamran said, "for without you none of this would have come to pass."

"I'm _here_ , Ffamran," Basch said.

"I hate this." Ffamran made a wary progression across the room, clearly disoriented. At that Basch drew another shuddering breath, for Ffamran had been here weeks, surely long enough to learn the place. "All I want to do is avoid dreaming, and instead, waking dreams walk beside me. I know enough not to ask if you hear it too."

"Perhaps I do," Margrace said. "Would it help if I told you the voice was not a smoke-dream, my lord, and that Basch fon Ronsenberg stood in this very room?"

Ffamran laughed, the unconscious tilt of his head baring the flex of his throat. His hands went to the lace there, unfastening, tugging open brocade and shirt beneath. "And how would he have gotten in, past all these guards?"

"With surprising ease," Basch said. "And a small amount of servitude. You appear to have forgotten to eat your previous meal, my lord. Your next one sits waiting."

"I have such horrible dreams that there's something in the room with me," Ffamran said, his voice too at ease for the cold stillness of his expression. His beringed fingers played across the bared strip of his skin, collar to navel, back up again; Basch could see that pale flesh pimple with the chill. "Not even, _him_ , but just something. Something. I lie awake and try not to move, for if I move it will…come for me, somehow, fall on me, crush me with that blackness. It's weighted, a presence, perhaps like my father's insanity for he often spoke to rooms when there was nothing there; oh it has me sweat with such fear. Anticipation, perhaps. How am I ever to tell when something's real or not, Margrace? Oh, the smoke, the smoke, you can bemoan its curse all you like when you've the luxury of doing so, but I have no way to know. See and believe; everything else is suspect." Ffamran's voice cracked, just slightly. "I think I'm going insane."

Basch stepped close, his hand not quite touching that motion of Ffamran's wrist. "It is confinement," Basch said, "I know it, I know the feeling Ffamran, why will you not _heed_ me? Two years underground I spent, in darkness as heavy as your own, only the weight of my own memory for company. Can you not think that of any I would comprehend? I know, I know you, I know this solitude."

"Whatever you have on offer," Ffamran said, steadily, close enough that Basch could feel his breath, "I'll take it now, Margrace, in both quantity and quality. Save your white weed for after, for obliteration. How do you want me, on my knees or otherwise?"

Basch flinched, flinched again for Margrace laid a hand on his shoulder when he had not determined that the pirate approached so close. Ffamran's expression slumped with exhaustion, suddenly open with such yearning Basch ached.

"In truth," Margrace said, "I want you in Basch's arms, for no man could resist the expression the man pulls when his heart breaks. If you could see it, my lord, you would be on your knees begging forgiveness even if you had done nothing wrong."

"This is cruel," Ffamran murmured, hand stilling with thin fingers steepled over his breastbone. "Are you so low as to mock even me, or are all Rozzarians so inclined towards cripples?"

Basch stepped, cupped Ffamran's jaw, kissed those waiting, open lips.

"Never," Basch said, when he found room for air, "had I ever," and lips again, tongue, tasting that sickly-deep smoke, "considered that you would surrender yourself so, Ffamran. When I first met you, you looked a fighter, sounded one, held yourself like one. What is this sorry piece of flesh before me now?"

The third time Ffamran recovered himself and thrust his tongue deep, they tangled, Basch responded, expecting – yes – Ffamran to bite, and hard; Basch did not pull away until survival required their disconnection.

"You fucking bastard," Ffamran spat, and spat blood, wiped his lips, "the pair of you, bastards, what are you even here for? Is Larsa extending his bordello to include the exotics of Rozzaria now? Will he start throwing Viera at me next? Bangaa even? Gods, gods, get the hell out!"

"Assuredly your wish is our command," Margrace said. "Unfortunately, Larsa's wish is also our command. The window is wide open. How shall we do this, Bsach - you to the grass where I'll defenestrate our unwilling duty into your waiting arms, or would you prefer it the other way?"

"Go defenestrate yourself, Rozzarian whore," Ffamran said, and staggered when he tried to step. His hand rose, to press wrist to his skull. For the first time, Basch saw Ffamran's eyelids flutter, straining to open, sliding closed again against that pointless effort. "Gods, if this is a smoke dream the vocabulary is unbearably extended."

Basch tested his tongue for the depth of that bite before he spoke. "I would prefer it if you were willing, Ffamran."

"I'm not going to kick or scream," Ffamran said, "for I'll look like a fool. But if you're…taking me…to Larsa, I'll not offer a mote of assistance."

"Is that all that's required to gain your willingness?" Margrace said, astonished. "Well then, my lord, you have my word that we'll not take you to little lord Larsa."

"Margrace—"

"No, no, Basch, this is not a topic for discussion. For one I cannot see either of us carrying his graciousness across our shoulders, for even thinner than a pike he's a goodly head taller than either of us. As smoke-hazed as he is, I cannot forsee that our path back across the rope – you do remember the rope, Basch? – would come to any happy conclusion without his assistance. Thus, I will compy, Lord Bunansa; I extend my invitation to join myself and my partner aboard my _Little Bird_ , a fighting class vessel of Rozzaria make with ample modifications to make it of interest to any."

"Do I have a choice?" Ffamran asked, and, "is that the name of an _airship_?"

"Of course you have a choice," Margrace said, "My way or Larsa's way. Why, what concern do you find with _Little Bird_ for the name of a ship?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong, as such," Ffamran said, "if you don't mind having the most flippant name for a ship across the length of Ivalice. You know, I don't think I've been on an airship since—" His hand fluttered, rising, and did not touch his eyes. "Since this happened to me."

"You realize, Margrace, you're effectively kidnapping the both of us." Basch moved to Ffamran's side, took an arm and found the flesh there too rigid for comfort. With as little contact as possible, Ffamran sank into his proffered arm as though he had nearly lost the will to stand. Basch gritted his teeth. If it was the smoke that had done this to Ffamran, if he found even the slightest hint that Gregoroth had instigated any of this without Ffamran's full willingness, there would be vengeful havoc wreaked. "I cannot return to Larsa without Ffamran."

"Why return to Larsa at all?" Margrace said, and grinned, expansive. He doffed his borrowed brocaded vest for ease of motion just in his shirtsleeves and paused to pose against the window's frame. "As much as I like our past companion, Basch, _he_ has no specific need for you to play your game of nursemaid."

As Margrace dropped out of the window, Ffamran breathed, "I resent the implication, Rozzarian."

Basch moved to that opening, Ffamran a limping weight at his side, and regarded the drop. Margrace stood in a bed of shrubbery below, scouting to the side. Ffamran would have to climb, inside the cage of Basch's arms to catch if he fell. There would be no easy way to do this, and defenestration, with Basch remembering Margrace's terrible aim from their time on the field together, was not to be considered.

"You would look terrible in a nursemaid's garb," Ffamran said. "Noah certainly would have."

Basch turned to put his lips against that proximity of cheekbone. Ffamran did not flinch, but did not turn to take that offer. That he was tolerating the touch was achingly clear. He smelled, just slightly, of the cloying spice of the smoke.

Intoxicated, blind, unwilling to touch, and climbing three storeys down a trellis. This, Basch thought, would be nearly as enjoyable as the rope slide back across to where Fran waited for their return.

Somewhere suspended halfway between earth and sky, Ffamran started to sing.

.

  



	12. Chapter 12

Basch sweated, stunk, bled, leaked; Ffamran could feel every imprint of the man's fleshy mortality seeping through even layers of brocade and linen, sharp, sharp, assailing what remnant senses Ffamran had left to command. His distinct displeasure was that he found even the heavy scent of Basch's exertion failed to put him off. Ffamran wondered at that sharp reek of blood, a wounding or a murder's spill.

"You are ill suited to this piratical lifestyle," Ffamran said, instead of _I want you, even now_. In response Basch merely tightened his grip on Ffamran's right forearm, hot palms pressing through the silk. Ffamran tried again: "Too much inappropriate exertion for a man of your age, Basch?"

"You are not one to talk of appropriate behaviour to suit one's age." The pirate spoke from Ffamran's left, accent near thick enough that his intent was obscured. Ffamran missed his next step - _I meant to stumble, I never trip_ \- that the pair of them stopped in unison and swore, holding him with rigid muscle on each side until Ffamran found his feet against that disorientation.

The most unfortunate thing about this sightless world, Ffamran considered, was that it proved impossible to live outside of memory. Imagining seemed an impossible span to leap. Noah's remembered touch blurred – he had never held so possessively, had he? He had never dared to grip so insultingly, for certain. The heat, the strain of Basch's grip superimposed on that of his dead brother's, the tension of Basch's body along Ffamran's right side overwhelmingly pertinent next to those old memories. Noah's face, perhaps, but scarred, older, different. Softer, if the pirate's unfunny commentary held a modicum of truth, more expressive; Ffamran had known Noah's face only from a distance at the Akademy, but the man had always seemed hard, and hard to read.

Strange that Ffamran's own memory seemed so bound in another's flesh. Surely an intangible thing, remembrance, yet instead Ffamran found it evoked only through visceral connection: sharp, hurting, _here_ , with Basch's fingers like steel bands about his wrist, oh, he would bruise from that, distinctly. A physical memory to supplement the ethereal.

Their pace was swift, enough that Ffamran could not find enough air to settle the heave of his chest, still aching from the smoke – when was the last time he had walked that distance of his own gardens? He had stopped counting the days, worse, the nights; Ffamran remembered, but he could not remember when. Somewhere about that time hurt had become nothingness instead, that Ffamran could scarcely recall why, precisely, he had been so hurt. Oh, but _Larsa_ – yes, Larsa's fault, conniving and cunning, a Solidor snake born for this game. Basch was here even now only for Larsa's order, Ffamran could recall that vague conversation the pirate and Basch had back in the manse. Yes, Larsa's order. Basch had no will or want to be here. Ffamran would not seek to find comfort in Basch's presence.

Yet it was his presence that gave that precisely that, solidity against the unsettling speed of pace and smoke, the cold of night air on Ffamran's face, the unknown destination. Basch's presence, that even through that numberless stretch of days of smoke and ache, only Basch's disturbances proved sharp, memorable, cutting as they were. Basch: stark against the blankness.

"Yes," Ffamran said, and startled himself with the ragged edge in his voice, "between grief and nothing I would much rather grief."

"Ah," said the pirate, "you settle far too soon and for far too little, my lord. Would you not rather the world in the place of grief?"

"He rambles," Basch said, and Ffamran kept his face angled ahead for the disgust in the man's voice stung. "He was singing earlier, coming down the wall. How we'll get across the void with him so stoned, Margrace—"

"Skypirates fly," Ffamran chided, "haven't you heard, Basch?"

"Oh, well done, my lord," the pirate chortled, "yet you, unfortunately, are not a skypirate. You will fall."

"Of course I'll fall," Ffamran said, "I've spent my whole life falling. I fell for him, didn't I, Noah; I fell for him, you, _Basch_. Hold, hold, I can't breathe—"

The unexpected exertion wracked him with shudders, the roil of his gut a sudden demanding pain that cut his focus to that single point. Ffamran bent, and retched, something, air and bile; the pain speared up and down and across, all four points of his world. He felt fingers touch his brow, his eyes, his lips in that aftermath, hot, wet, wiping; his own flesh was chilled in comparison, slick.

"It's so cold. Where are we?" His voice sounded weak enough that he decided he hated it, and he should never speak again.

"On a street in Tsenoble," Basch said, "I know not the name. Off the Strand."

But that was provocation enough that Ffamran cried— "Why did you bring me here? Don't you know people I know could see me walking arm in arm with some random swarthy Rozzarian and a sweat-slick Landisi? My father would be so mortified to hear. I'm always careful that word can't get back to him, nothing to disturb his studies. You've undone me, Basch!"

"If that's your concern," the pirate said, "then you should have thought of a better place to leave the scant load of your stomach."

Fingers continued, stroking wet cloth this time across the back of Ffamran's neck, patted away the ache. Ffamran tried to stand, sank to his knees again. Some vague panic had him clutch at the air, at nothing, at –

"It's past midnight," Basch said, almost sadly, "no one is here to see you, wretched or otherwise, Ffamran."

"My father is dead," Ffamran said, wonderingly; his fingers moved on Basch's arm, despite that he willed them not to. The cord of the man's forearm flexed under his grip. "Were we…did we…were we walking on a fence?"

"At one point," the pirate said, "yet you seemed to find that a challenge for you kept trying to find your way along that precarious line all alone. I had us risk taking to the backstreets, my lord, for you were giving Basch grey hairs most prematurely."

"You should have let me fall," Ffamran said, "it could hardly be worse. I am a fallen man, a hundred times fallen. Countless times. Oh, my knees ache so, and the rest of me—"

At that Basch was snarling, vicious with his grip; Ffamran felt himself shaken as though from a great distance, that he nearly had to laugh but did not for fear he would weep. "Godsdamn it, Ffamran, would you shut up about that?" He cleared his throat, tried to achieve some smooth sharpness in his tone instead of that raw anger. "You have comment overmuch on your wantonness already."

"Here," said the pirate, "drink this, my lord, it will settle your stomach."

Fingers, again, pressed at his mouth, something – glass – long, a bottle, open, pressing. Ffamran turned his head, felt liquid spill against his cheek. "Settle my stomach and clear my head, I know how your curatives work. I want it not."

"Give it here, Margrace –"

A mouth claimed his then, not just fingers, no cold glass kiss but hot and aching, desperate, with familiar stubble to chafe and sweat to chill on his cheek. Ffamran met that desperation, sucked back with his own painful hunger, swallowed what came with that draw, something cool and warm to birth a coiled snake inside him—

The resultant shock from that had him wrench away from Basch's mouth, staggering. A remedy – yes, that aftertaste, definitely a remedy. Ffamran heaved, entirely dry but for the uncontrollable gulps of breath and saliva – breath, yes, his mind had to draw the link as to why that sudden agony: the remedy would be forcing that poison out of his blood, it would need air to bind, to render the smoke impotent - again, again, Ffamran heaved, and gasped, and reeled for want of air. Basch was at his side, and there was, something, his free hand sought – stone, solidity, a cold stone wall, the edge of a flagstone under his knees, Basch again, over-hot against the chill of the night. The remedy did not take more than moments to work, moments that left him drenched in chill and gasping with sudden, immutable clarity. Oh gods, gods, _that_ was worse than any morning after, awakening with too much recollection of the night's nightmares that smoke seemed the only way to blind his own mind's eye.

"You teach a hard lesson, Basch." Ffamran did not try to stand against the flickering edge of pain that whirled. "I must remember to withhold from swallowing everything I find in my mouth."

"Bastard," Basch said, near a cry, "you call me the curse but you're the arrogant bastard, Ffamran, why do you taunt me so? I saw, in your bed – and you _flaunted_ them even in the senatorial sessions – every time you start, you say, you speak, you _suggest_ —"

"It is the mark of a truly cynical man," the pirate said, "to know the cost of every whore and the value of no man."

"Pirate," Ffamran said, motionless on his knees, "if I were an able man I'd hit you for that comment."

"Try to hit me anyway," the pirate said. "I vow not to laugh when you miss. Every child's efforts should be rewarded."

"Get up," Basch said, "get up, I'll not carry you any more. Get up, Ffamran, get up get _up_ —"

Ffamran did not stagger when he stood, though his head spun and the stone beneath his feet could not find their level. "I need not lift a finger to cripple you, pirate. I own your godsdamned ship, the heart of your ship, your life, your freedom, and I need not even spare the time to woo her away from you. A word from me and you're grounded, well and truly. Can you even comprehend how much power my family name gives me?"

"A shame," the pirate mused, "for all that power, those riches, it seems you still haven't enough gil to buy back your past."

"How dare you, when I _know_ you, your cowardice, your fleet and fickle whim. I did not run from my duties, pirate, I stayed, I stayed by my father's side when his aides would have shipped me off. I stayed, and I _tried_ , gods, I tried even when he went insane. You – what did you do but shirk every responsibility a ruling son had, _my Lord Margrace_ , to run away, run away, chasing your fickle whim and Viera arse?"

At that the pirate sucked in a sharp breath, his tone biting. "A fourth son has no place or purpose but to find his own whim—"

"A fourth son?" Ffamran grinned; his face felt uncommonly stiff. "Just like Larsa, the third son never thought to rule? Like myself, a third son never thought to survive? You had it, Margrace, you could have had a say in the direction of Ivalice's spin. Do you ever stop to think of what you could have done, had you been empowered to stop Vayne's encroachment – and instead, what did you do but run after a deposed princess and leave two nations bare-arsed in the wind with untried rulership at the helm? This chaos through Archades, I lay it at your feet and say again how _dare_ you throw my crippling in my face when I have never been so low as to abandon my role, my _duty_ , whatever that I cannot fulfill that expectation. I try, gods, at least I try."

"And how well you fight when pressed," the pirate said, quiet, "how well you kick and plead, all to hide that you've given up. Have you never thought, now, the streets a mess of mania, that your absence may serve your country all the better?"

"Trying will kill you, Ffamran," Basch said, haltingly, awkwardly. Ffamran flinched at the heat of that grip on his shoulder. "I – I will dare say that I know you as well as any might. Whatever you do think of Larsa's dictation of my purpose, I find much of value in your company. You are, as Ashelia is, as Larsa is, someone who will not compromise with mere trying, and there is worth in that. My fear is that Archades will kill you, for it has not the room for your success."

Ffamran said, involuntarily, " _Basch_ —"

"Ah, Ffamran, my lord, don't look at me so, don't speak my name so. I am not the man to resist such a grace and then your Archadian streets would have a sight at which to be truly scandalized."

"Come," the pirate said, "in the literal sense, not the vernacular, however hard seems for the pair of you at present. Fran waits; the _Little Bird_ waits, and much comfort against this Archadian night can be found therein. Food and drink also, should you wish to avail yourselves of such."

"Then," Ffamran said, and unable to resist, "as I seem to have agreed in the depths of my intoxication, truant Margrace, take me to this airship of mine."

"Oh, would-be princeling," the pirate said, "you do so have a surprising bite."

The rest of their pace was a more even one, Ffamran walking as he used to, orienting by the sound of Basch's step ahead of him and the bare brush of knuckles against the back of Basch's hand. The air was chill, clear, crisp; Ffamran angled his face into the slight breeze and felt his eyes water. His lids must be open; strange that he could scarcely judge of late, even by the feel of the muscles. When at last they stopped he could hear the hum of myst and electricity, conduits – they were nowhere he had been before.

The pirate took Ffamran's crossed wrists with a grip from above; Basch cupped his boot from below and lifted. The rough edge of a brick parapet caught him in the stomach, the pirate's efforts dragging him onto what must be a roof. Once Basch gained the rooftop, grunting, limping, the stink of blood warningly strong in the air, he and the pirate crouched to discuss their procedure. Ffamran felt a mild disquiet, a jealousy, for that half heard discussion was one of short bursts and few words; it spoke of an understanding between the pirate and Basch, a time of learning each other's thoughts such that words were unnecessary.

At the end they reached a consensus; the pirate took Ffamran's wrist and drew him forward. "Basch is injured, he cannot carry you over this chasm. You must trust me instead."

"If Basch trusts you—"

Unhesitatingly: "I do."

"—then, tell me what you want of me, Margrace."

"There is a rope, spanning on a downward slope to where my partner awaits with our exodus to the ship. I shall have ankles crossed at the rope, both hands on it, gloved; I will slide and concern myself only with maintaining my grip on the rope. You, you must concern yourself with maintaining your grip on me, for you must lie across my chest. I can think of no other way to do this."

"Ha," said Ffamran, warily, "as you will then. How great is the fall?"

"All the way to Sochen," Basch said, his tone wavering, "all the way to hell."

"Comforting," the pirate chided. "Here, my lord, your hands—you must grip, for I can only just lift your weight, and then not to move with any kind of agility. The height of you Archadians is utterly disproportionate for your other endowments, or so I hear."

This close, the pirate had a strange scent to him, utterly exotic, of spice and strangeness even more distinct than Basch's vague foreignness. Ffamran curled his head close, his arms behind, and felt an old memory stir, of a teleport stone's trip to the depths of Rozzaria, a clear night sky on a distant hilltop with a small town's cooking fires wafting scent on the breeze. Strange, Ffamran thought, so strange, for he should see rooftops and horizon in his mind's eye, stars set in blackness, red-tiled rooves and grass bleached by the moon to silvers and greys – yet the image blurred to near indistinction, while the scent, coriander and red pepper, stayed painfully strong.

"Don't let go," the pirate warned, lifted that Ffamran felt the world shift and the muscles of the pirate's chest and shoulders flex beneath his arms. The fall was a slide, accompanied by the passage of air warm one second and cold the next, and the faint rasp of glove on rope, the pirate's strained breath.

The pirate fell when they landed at the other side, depositing Ffamran unceremoniously that he bit his tongue to hold back a curse. A hand touched his shoulder to help him rise; when he took it, he startled to feel claws.

"Fran," he said, and remembered politeness belatedly. "My lady. I've heard a lot about you."

"The pleasure of acquaintance is mine." The Viera's voice matched what Ffamran remembered of their alienness; he could smell the musk of her even from this distance. At that, at the sound of her clawed feet clicking on tile, Ffamran at last felt something stir within – something, something almost forgotten. Not fear, no; the inverse, a compelling keenness, perhaps.

"It's all set up then?" the pirate asked his partner. "Well done."

"Basch comes – he did satisfactorily?"

"A veritable pirate in the making," the pirate said, proudly enough Ffamran bit back the jealousy.

"A veritable anarchist," Ffamran retorted—

"Better than a royalist," the pirate responded, easily.

The rush of air, a hard thump and a resounding curse heralded Basch's arrival – the Viera's instant concern was evident, the hasty click of claw on tile, her tongue working against the roof of her mouth. "Your wound re-opened."

"It is well," Basch said, panted, "for I am here. Is that—you—that's a teleport stone, Fran!"

"A temporary one," she said, with the sound of a smile in her voice. "They are especially useful for quick escapes from otherwise awkward circumstances; a back door beyond all other back doors. Years this took me to engineer, and well spent time. It will decay after one use, especially with the strain of four of us. Shall we adjourn?"

"Yes," Basch said, "yes. A pleasant surprise indeed, I was not enthralled at the thought of making our way through Sochen again, not bloodied already."

"Do you want the rope after all that, Basch?" the pirate asked. "You did mention—"

"No," Basch said, "give it to the void."

The use of the teleport stone felt precisely as Ffamran remembered, though this time its sue was not on his own, but rather with Basch's hand on his right elbow and Fran's arm through the crook of his left – a whirl, a sickening disorientation, the harmonic keening of the stone aligning its keytones with destination stone, and then –

Arrival, into a heaving warmth of air, wet and heavy with the scent of rye-grass, a recent rain, marlboro mankiness and coerl piss stink, and _earth, earth, freedom_. The surge of memory that swelled, a name, a location; ruins and the feel of a gun's recoil against his palm, his shoulder, it nearly obscured the sudden realization that but for the security of his summer house, this was his first time out of Archades in eight years.

"This is – the Tchita Uplands. Am I right?"

"How did you determine that?" the pirate asked, astonished.

"Smell," Fran said, and made a satisfied hum. "The recent wet, the reek of the beasts, tis how I orient, young Margrace; I have told you often your obsession with appearances will be your downfall."

At that Ffamran grinned, opening his mouth to retort also, yet Basch's tug on his wrist was suddenly urgent, enough that Ffamran stumbled across the falling slope of grass unwarily, heavily, until the ground leveled.

"This is the ship," Basch said, "my home for those months dedicated to Ashelia's quest. The sight of this fills me with no small joy, Ffamran. That it should prove more familiar than Noah's apartment, than even my old quarters back in Rabanastre - it is as though a new self walked free of that captivity in Nalbina, and this is a return to my first home."

Ffamran followed the draw of Basch's hand, finding the cool curved hull, and allowed his fingertips to trace a seam. He paced, more warily this time without Basch's hand on his arm, along the outskirts of the form. Ffamran found the hatch open already, a sharp edge to his fingers. He climbed those steps, narrow; he traced the head that he would not knock his skull and found it lower than he expected. "It's rather a small ship, is it not?"

"Size should not be your predominant concern," the pirate called, from what sounded to be the fore of the ship. "Tis the quality that counts, my lord."

"Rather consider the skill of the pilot's hand first and foremost," Fran rebutted. "Neither size nor quality counts for aught without a skilled hand at the helm."

Basch pushed him inside with a hand at the small of his back; Ffamran complied, and found the narrow hall an ease to navigate, one hand finding a trail of fine-finished rivets to map a stubbled path. He paused when the wall gave way to a door.

"Not this one," Basch said, his voice low in this confined space. "This door was Ashelia's bunk, with Penelo bedding with her to chaperone against Margrace's inappropriate advances. I think Fran uses it as her map room."

"And did Penelo have to chaperone against your own advances, Basch, that your penchant for bedding your masters and mistresses held true even then?"

"Gods, you must prod so, mustn't you?" Basch pushed him again, a firm nudge between his shoulderblades. "Two doors down, to portside. No, they did not, she did not; Ashelia was not _you_."

The temptation to prod continued; Ffamran exercised his ill-practiced restraint, found silence and thus found the door that Basch had indicated. Inside, the feel of the air shifted, a space more open than prior. Ffamran straightened, unaware that he had hunched for the oppression of the space in the hall.

"The shower has but room for one," Basch said, "you first, my lord, for you're laced with the wretched scent of that smoke still."

"Oh. Truly only room for one? For you're a miserable insult to my nose also."

Interesting that insult seemed to provoke Basch where polite query never had; Ffamran found himself forcably deprived of clothing, his back slammed against the slick polypanel of a shower's cubicle. Basch had no sense of proprietry where no one could see, something Ffamran vaguely recollected of the man's behaviour for that brief time in each other's company, for he turned on the cold water full blast to leave Ffamran gasping.

Once the waters warmed, Basch stepped in; they were together, flesh against flesh, warm soapy wet making everything chafe instead of slide. The flow of water was miserable that Ffamran's shoulders chilled, his back also. He could not complain, could not even turn, for Basch presented his back. Ffamran allowed his fingers to roam, finding those old scars so familiar now, the valley of the man's spine, the hard narrowness of his waist.

"Your wound—"

"My thigh," Basch said, "in defence of Larsa. It is not a serious blow, merely an inconvenience."

"Nevertheless I resent him for every scar he lays on your body."

"One more is hardly enough for such resentment, Ffamran."

"But for that Larsa's brother should be resented for every other scar," Ffamran said, pointed. "The Solidors owe you a new skin, Basch."

"You," Basch said, and turned to face him, "must stop with this fondness for the dead."

Ffamran faced into the flow of the water, remembering to close his eyes only when he felt some associated irritation on those orbs. He was distracted even from that irritation, for Basch's hand closed on the slow-stiffening member that jutted between them. Basch pushed once, slow, to force back foreskin, his thumb a careless motion across the tip that Ffamran felt as disproportionately sensitive – he felt it _everywhere_ , the tightening of his gut, his arse, the skin across his shoulders, the hitch in his breath.

"You have not taken care of yourself in my absence," Basch said, reproachful. "You are a mass of bruises and bone."  
"The smoke," Ffamran said, his breath quickening; he swallowed a mouthful of water and moved his face from the flow. "It kills appetite."

"Not your appetite for this," Basch said, and slid his grip, root to tip, cupping, sliding down again.

Ffamran laughed, rueful: "No, even that."

"Yet the bruises—"

"Call me decidedly stubborn," Ffamran said, "or completely idiotic, but even without appetite I did—I still wanted, it was—Oh gods, Basch, stop doing that, I can't think with your hand on me."

"I think," Basch said, "you should leave the thinking to others, for you snarl yourself in thoughts like a kitten in wool and most unrepentantly."

"Find your own witticisms," Ffamran said, startled, "for you can't thieve mine as well as kidnapping me, whatever your newfound piratical skills."

The water's flow cut off with a squeak of metal on washer. Basch drew him forward, with a hasty and nearly belated warning for the step at the threshold. The temperature of the cabin was such the water on their skin was not unpleasant; Basch drew him onto the bunk. Ffamran measured his length alongside Basch's wet muscle, momentarily appreciative for the ship's smallness for it forced such proximity.

"Are you hard?"

"You can see for yourself," Basch said. "You do not need to permission, my lord; but likewise, do not think to order me."

Ffamran felt, off target that he instead hit that inflamed flesh of Basch's wounded thigh and had the man swallow a curse. "To the left," Basch said, wry, and sucked in a sharp breath—

The curved heat there woke the half-felt hunger to a full blaze. Ffamran thoroughly enjoy the quavering instability of his next inward breath, a shudder that he hoped Basch appreciated. Skin felt like soft silk, even finer than soft silk, a shifting refinement across that steel beneath. Ffamran found wet at the tip, too viscous for water, and his lids fluttered that Basch leaned, worked closer across the bunk, and pressed his lips to Ffamran's. His cock ached, wanting, more, motion and teasing and testing: it was an unusual thing for Ffamran, for his desirous sensation had never been so heavily located in that member.

It was the proximity that sparked that need to be touched, yes, the proximity, Basch's desire to provoke to his own; Ffamran matched their lengths again, paired arousals held across his palm, a recurve bow. This forced closeness was as strange as the feel of his cock against Basch's, for even in their bedsharing in his summer house Basch had ever been one to roll to the side, away, distinct, only acting on Ffamran's command. Here, here, Ffamran's fingers scarcely spanned their dual width, holding them only and all motion a surrendered attempt; they blurred, heat blurred, until it seemed there was only one desire for sating.

"Will you take me?" Ffamran asked, mindful not to order—

"No."

Ffamran swallowed, too heavily that he knew Basch could hear it. "Please, I want you—"

"No," Basch said, "I'll not take you with violence again however you order or beg or demand. By preference, I'll not take you at all until you heal. Your flesh bears a map of ill-treatment. However much I would desire to sate your hunger, however much the look of this—" and Basch's fingers trailed across the concave of Ffamran's stomach, the narrowing slope of rib to hip – "makes me want to make you writhe, I will not."

"This," Ffamran said, and shifted to close his grip solely on Basch's pulsing cock, "does not seem in agreement with your resolve."

Basch disengaged that hand to rolled onto his back. Ffamran choked down the bitterness. "Indulge my concern for the wellbeing of your flesh, momentarily. The wait may do you well."

Ffamran did wait, at least half a minute. He moved, hesitant for the wound in Basch's thigh, awkward for the narrowness of the bed that had one foot planted on the floor where his other leg curled under him still on the mattress, on the other side of Basch's hips. He was – facing away, which perhaps was better that Basch could not see his face. Ffamran did not think he could ever let someone see his face when he did this, not when he could never claim the favour in return.

Basch's fingers trailed up Ffamran's spine, rough enough to make him shiver. "What do you think do to, over me like so?"

"If you'll not indulge me," Ffamran said, over his shoulder, "then lie back and allow me to indulge myself."

"You have no restraint," Basch said, throaty. His fingers slid lower, along the proffered crease of Ffamran's flesh. Ffamran swallowed the sound that begged release when Basch broached him, stingingly.

" _You_ have no restraint," Ffamran said, and reached beneath for Basch's cock, angling it to the ceiling. Basch's hand pulled away, hasty; in that absence Ffamran aligned cock with hunger, and swallowed.

He threw his head back and sounded, raw; sound and sensation both.

"Gods, you have utterly no concept of how you look when you do that," Basch said, rough, his thighs shifting beneath Ffamran's weight, spreading. "I can have no restraint where it concerns you, it seems."

"I—" Ffamran choked, one hand still beneath himself, between them; he almost could not admit this, that the blankness that blinded him sought to _drown_ him now, to strip him of all sensation but for the throb that split him, to disorient, whirl, a vertiginous world without balance. "It's not my preference to enjoy this way, I can't—"

"If you've still that hunger for such force, you inflict it on yourself. I'll not be the one to break you again."

Basch's hand joined Ffamran's own, cupping forked fingers around that breadth of his own cock Ffamran could not make himself take, wholly. The other hand trailed the path along Ffamran's spine, up and back, as though counting the knots of vertebra. Ffamran near whimpered for the strange delicacy of that touch, and felt himself tighten about Basch that the latter made a muffled moan.

"I feel as though I'll fall," Ffamran admitted, at last. "The vertigo – I can't see to know where I am like this, and the—when I try to move like this—I'll fall."

"Ffamran," Basch said, excessively patient, "what fear can you possibly have for falling off the edge of the bed? It's not as though you'll fall over the edge of the world."

Ffamran laughed, closed his lids, let his head fall forward that Basch's free hand could travel the full elongation of his spine to weave fingers through the crop of his hair, tinglingly. Ffamran shifted, lifted his foot at last from the floor. His knees beside Basch's own, he could, now, claim the man to the hilt. His press pinned their paired hands between flesh, around that scarce inch of unswallowed cock; this time it was Basch that made the sound, and Ffamran felt the tripled pulse of the man in the sudden painful thickening. He could not rise, not wholly, still with that lingering fear to taint and excite; he could only rock, forward, slightly, back, not an undesireable sensation but not the full torrent of force required to have his vision colour with the pain. He heard Basch lick his fingers, felt the surprising coolness of spit as slick when Basch traced the taut skin where they joined; it was more the promise of fingers there, of further width, that had Ffamran whine.

"Please," Ffamran said, still rocking, an inch or two of thrust, three if he bent forward so the angle itself nearly hurt. He took his hand away from between them, used it to brace himself on the mattress and still, still – could not find it in himself to rise and sink resoundingly. The fear, of falling, such an irrationality yet so binding. "Oh, please, Basch, please, _please_ , I can't, I want—"

And then Basch lifted his own hips from the mattress, hard enough that Ffamran rocked forward, up, away; gasped—

Basch closed his hands on Ffamran's waist, a definite impatience, at last. He lifted in counterpoint, up when he drew his hips down, to pull Ffamran back down hard when he rocked up and Ffamran could at last throw his head back, surrender, see stars again in whirling motes of sharp pain, shadowed memory, aching, itching want. Ffamran clasped the flex of Basch's wrist in one hand, and the other, the other he closed about the distracting rigidity of his own prick, hot to his palm. _I want this_ : Ffamran surprised himself with the realization. He wanted his own force to bring him to climax rather than that purely driven into his own aching entrails; memory lived in this action, less the dizzying sway of thrust and more in the flesh standing firm in his own hand, incontrovertible desire. His palm was dry, wild, too harsh in motion but askance to Basch's own rhythm that not a moment was empty of excesses of sensation; this, this, Ffamran could face that hunger and own it, _I want this, I will this, have this, want this_. Perhaps memory _could_ only exist within flesh: motion and sensation, the hunger and want of his flesh, his mortality. If memory did exist outside of this rawness then it could not possibly be a memory; without corporeality, without mortality to make each moment rare against an infinity of death, remembrance was meaningless.

"Can you come when I do?" Ffamran asked, when he could manage the words. Basch's answer was in the press of his fingers onto the nape of Ffamran's neck, the tightness of his grip on Ffamran's waist. His next upwards thrust was deep enough Ffamran recoiled, rocked forwards, to feel the trail of slick the head of his own cock left across his belly.

"When—?"

"Oh, soon, soon," Ffamran arched back, lifted one leg to press his heel against the mattress that he could drive himself deeper where Basch's thrust fell too irregular, his fist slow on his own cock but forceful, hard, so hard, "near—"

"I feel it," Basch said, disbelieving, "tight."

Ffamran could not speak a warning; his body's motion became nothing but an extension of his fist, moving hard enough that his nails cut, that the throbbing pulse of his orgasm made of him a wretched, shuddering piece of flesh. Basch sat up, took him by the shoulders, and drove hard and short into that aftermath that Ffamran cried out through that excess, feeling Basch's thrice spill inside.

"Almost," Basch said into Ffamran's shoulder, not quite apologetically; when the man fell backwards Ffamran fell with him, still atop him, and could not move to disengage. His stomach was slick, he found, though he had not felt it when he came.

Ffamran lay there, his head still spinning despite the heave of Basch's chest against his spine, something that should ground him. Imperfect – yet, yet, _almost_.

"I am sorry."

"You are not." Basch stirred, just enough that Ffamran rolled away with care for the wound on the man's thigh. "You should have no need to lie."

"I wish I—I wish I could give something more," Ffamran said, admitted, "something less selfish. Others can manage intimacy, or feign it to mutual satisfaction, yet I cannot. I _am_ sorry, for you deserve more."

"This is well enough, Ffamran. Falsehood is not a colour that suits the pallor of your skin." Basch's yawn drowned his next words; he repeated himself. "It's near dawn, you should find yourself some respite in sleep."

At least in this bed, mildly damp though it was, Ffamran thought he would not find any remnant dreams to disturb him with tainted recollections.

.

  



	13. Chapter 13

Basch woke into familiarity, one side overly warm. The single porthole let a blinding shaft of light into the room, marking a circle on the deck. Basch watched the few motes of dust drift in that current before his mind could admit he should stir. His replete laziness was entirely unfamiliar with the locale, though: in Ashelia's service there had never been the time to languish.

The warmth against his side proved to be the sleek curve of Ffamran's spine, for that one had curled away in his sleep, face to the wall and claiming the vast proportion of the single pillow. The blankets also so claimed, Basch noted. Ffamran had ever slept with such a selfish intent, as though he had never had to share a bed with another who required him to moderate his behaviour.

Basch showered, rubbing away that remnant crust of dried blood from his thigh along with the remnant of the night's other exertions. Reluctant to dress in the stained garb from the night before, he wrapped himself well in a towel instead. Margrace would have trousers in his cabin, something of a size Basch could borrow.

On stepping out into the hall, Basch found something more appealing than trousers – the smell of sausage on the air, warmed bread, frying fat. He turned to exit instead, his stomach growling audibly for the lack of food the night before. The hatch stood open that the aroma could enter: through it, Basch found Fran, Margrace – and Nono, so rarely aground for his tasks in the _Little Bird's_ bay could often only be completed when the ship was out of flight. They sprawled in various states of disarray about a Mooglecraft stovetop, that hotplate overburdened with food.

"Awake so early?" Margrace said, scarcely stirring from his stretch, one boot heel atop the toe of the other. "Then again, _once_ could scarcely be considered such an effort to keep you abed—"

"A pleasure to see you again, Nono," Basch said instead. He remembered his state of undress only when the sun pressed full-lick across his shoulders as he limped out of the airship's shadow, to cross that grassy distance to breakfast. "It has been some time. Does the _Bird_ still fly well?"

"Indeed it has; in my hands, of course she does!" said the Moogle. "Glad I am to see you also, Basch fon Ronsenburg, that you are not dead as rumour would have it."

"Rumours as to the state of my death are never to be trusted," Basch said, that Fran laughed, lightly.

"Your charge," said she, sharp-eyed despite her good humour, "still abed?"

"Soundly. I would take him somewhat to greet his awakening, if I may?"

"Help yourself," Margrace said, and gestured at a stack of plates with the toe of his boot for his arms he kept behind his head, a pillow. "Forgive my lassitude to leap to serve as a host, but somewhat kept me from sleep last night."

"Be silent with your supposition, Margrace," Fran chided, "you slept like a lizard and have all the hospitality of one. Basch, mind me to fetch you more remedy for young Ffamran and with a change of garb. The smoke's aftereffects will linger for some days, yet, til his tissues are full-purged."

"He is – you mean to say he was still influenced, last night? But he—I believed he was sane when he—"

"Your concern does you merit," Margrace said, "rest assured whatever state of intoxication plagued him it could hardly be considered more dire than one too many wines at supper. Yet you surprise me with that concern. You have never liked to act without the word of another to be your command." Margrace yawned, tipping his glasses forward that his eyes could meet Basch's without that opacity to guard. "Will you ever admit whatever passes between the pair of you is as much your own drive as his?"

Ignoring that last, Basch said nothing. Margrace snorted into the silence, settling himself again with his dark glasses close. It proved to be Fran that could not abide that quiet.

"Oh, Basch, heed young Margrace through his brashness. If nothing else, our piracy taught us of the right to lay claim to each of our actions, our consequences. One cannot always live with another's command as guiding light, for when one goes astray another will not appreciate the attempt to place all blame on their head."

"Scarce a year in your company, pirates all," Basch said, astonished, "and you think you possess full knowledge of my heart that you can chide me so profoundly?"

"Know you," Margrace groaned, "and know your life, for gods, man, you wear rumours like jewels. Landis: your loss there all Archades' deviation. Nabudis: that you threw yourself so heartily into the fray and solely after Rasler's whim – and he _another_ young nobleman that suddenly I ken your uncharacteristic hotheaded action there. Raminas's assassination: I doubt it was you that ran headlong into that fray, but rather you after Vossler's tail, no? And then what, Ashelia's whim, where you allowed her to lead us crossways the length and breadth of Ivalice until she sorted her own thoughts into straight mind? Vaan, and oh, you have such a penchant for youthful males, Basch fon Ronsenburg, for I distinctly recall you encouraging and accompanying his pursuit of every unnecessary mark."

"Then what," Fran said, "but your own brother's word to set you in Gabranth's place; Larsa's word to set you to Ffamran's bed; our very own word to bring you here. When do you stop with this flotsam behaviour, Basch, and steer your own course?"

"I resent your numerous implications, Margrace; to the pair of you I say this is altogether too much depth to delve before breakfast." Basch strove for lightness and yet heard the awkward stiffness in his tone. Fran and her partner exchanged a glance, such knowing, without words, years of unspoken communication. Basch ignored them, sinking painfully to his knees with some care for the set of his towel, and reached to serve off the stove.

"For yourself, I bear no concern," Margrace said, blithe; "for Ffamran, though, what happens to he when another's word calls you away? For if it is not your own will, all that keeps you content at his side is another's command."

That implication there, Basch could not speak to address, could not consider. "Ffamran is not so fragile," he muttered, and did not look up. He thought of the sun warming his shoulders, the ache in his thigh, the scent of sleep that hung still on his breath if not his skin. He thought especially of the roll of bronzed sausage as he tried to scoop one from the blazing element; he needed either a fork or tongs, for his fingers were burning.

"Not fragile," Margrace agreed—

"—but brittle," Fran concluded. "Yet you are the one that will suffer that guilt if he breaks. Your guilt, also, you wear marked on your person like ungainly jewels."

"What care have you?" Basch snapped, and at last salvaged sausage onto the plate. "Before last night, you had never met Ffamran."

"For a friend, instead," Margrace said, "one who was ever in much need of comfort and a confidant."

"For a comrade, true," Fran said, "one who deserves more reward than the coldness of a lonely unremembered death."

"I deserve more than my brother ever had, you mean?" Basch tried again for lightness, and spoke only with hurt. He stood to void their response, cursing at the renewed strain in his leg. At his downward glance to assure that his towel had not dislodged he saw red, sudden and sharp.

"Here—" Fran stood with uncanny grace, a green glow rising as did she; before Basch could speak the hard heat of curative magicks hit him, sweeping, raveling, the sick feel of a too-rapid binding of flesh and hurt, the violence of nerves a-scream with hasted binding –

"You could have done that on our arrival last night," Basch said, shaking off the remnant burn for his hands were busy with balancing loaded plates.

"I could have," Fran agreed, "yet you ventured away before I could speak to offer."

"What Fran means," Margrace said, dry, "you were entirely too eager to _push_ your lord into bed, where I presume you wrought some solace from pounding the metal of his flesh."

Basch stared at the horizon and found himself wordless. It was an effect Margrace had often had on him; better silence than sound a fool. Yet, he had, oh – he had pushed Ffamran so, had he not? And hastily so, inopportunely that the pirates could have observed. Why had he proved so desperate then? Indeed, why so dedicated at all?

"The look on you," Margrace chortled, "never had I thought to see Basch fon Ronsenburg so lost as this. It is, gratifying, to see you are as passionate and fallible as the rest of us. Basch fon Ronsenburg: mortal at last."

"It happens," Fran said, without the slightest hint of humour in her voice. "Oh, Basch, will you not admit that this, sometimes, happens? I know, _I know_ , three of your lifetimes I have lived and loved, and perhaps it _is_ only for a time for all flesh is mortal and fallible and all whim is fickle. But it happens; to deny its happenstance is to deny a purpose in being. That kind of love comes and goes, and it does prove so hard to remember afterwards – it is like pain, like a wound healed, where you look and cannot see aught of the sensation that once torrented so strong. Will you let this be, will you look at Ffamran one day in a decade, in a score of years, will you think, _I loved you_? Will you only ever allow this, for the tense and the love, both past?"

"Such an amazing, precarious thing, love." Margrace shouldered up onto his elbows, flipping his hair out of his eyes. "I will admit I know entirely why you are so evasive, Basch. It is near impossible to admit the lengths one would go to for the sake of love." His gaze touched the rising curve of Fran's leg, that object of his gaze unheeding for the angle of her position. "Around the length of Ivalice and twice over, even."

"Here," Fran said, and indicated towards the _Bird_ , "I shall accompany you inside and fetch that remedy and clean clothing; your breakfast will get cold."

"Pardon, your piratical pointlessness," Nono said to Margrace, for Basch to hear on his periphery as he followed Fran, "but I did hear the name Ffamran and such an old Archadian name is not in common parlance these days. Is that not, Ffamran Mid Bunansa, perchance—?"

Yet it was not until Basch sat on the single wall-fixed bench in that tiny cabin that had once been his, picking at that food that had seemed so appetizing under the sun, that he could even think on their words. The curve of Ffamran's spine presented in knots against his fine skin, the blankets clustered possessively to his chin but contradictorially leaving his back so bare. The smudged bruises across Ffamran's hips, his upper arms, hints of fingerprints at his shoulders, that graceful column of his neck; Basch's throat closed with – bitterness, anger - when he tried to think on those marks, what would have caused the making of them.

Strange, strange, such strangeness, that this task he had embraced reluctantly had become his to own. Basch could not determine why Ffamran's self-imposed illtreatment should so offend _him_ , Basch – was it that he considered those bruises a mark of his own failure? A reminder that Basch fon Ronsenburg could not predict the will of even a single man where Noah had managed so deftly man and Archadian nation? No, not that – for Basch had never measured his success by his ability to command another, to inspire another. He had ever been the one inspired by others. Those bruises seemed more a personal insult, a wounding Ffamran had taken yet Basch had felt in his stead, a direct blow where Basch had never thought to keep a guard. Those bruises did not belong on Ffamran's fair flesh.

"I can feel you watching me," Ffamran said, blurred with sleep. His ribs heaved with a deep sigh, the bones visible against the pallor of his skin, his heartbeat flickering in the scant flesh between. He had ever been thin, but smoothly-fleshed for his height; these months apart had wasted him to the edge of fragility. "You breathe too heavy. What thought keeps you so bound?"

"I think," Basch said, "that you are more beautiful than anything I have ever seen."

But Ffamran snorted, a sound that made such mockery of those hesitant words that Basch could not think to attempt the words he had wished to follow. Ffamran set the heels of his palm to the wall and pushed, arching back in an unashamed stretch that set that sun-shy skin sliding across fine bone too stark, that bared long limbs in a display unconsciously arrogant.

"From behind, perhaps," Ffamran said, curling inwards again in the aftermath of that stretch. How he could cover such length yet curl after in such a concise ball Basch could not determine. "I distinctly remember a callow lanky lad with quite big ears, the most nondescript hair colour available, decidedly unhealthy skin and a disproportionate and most-sharp nose. At least I don't have to wear my glasses any more."

"You've never seen yourself as a man," Basch said, startled. Even more startled was he to find himself at the side of the bunk, kneeling on the floor. Ffamran flinched when Basch touched at his shoulder, relaxed a moment later, pressing back to slide skin against the calloused palm proffered. "Yet why do you think, I, could have wanted you – before Larsa spoke so harshly – and all others, Noah, that lay with you–"

"My money, of course." Ffamran turned, almost as though reluctant to hear Basch's answer to such an insanity; his lids were closed though not crumpled, lashes long against his cheek. This close, in full daylight instead of the paling-filtered weather of Archades, Basch thought he could almost see the remainer of freckles dusting across that nose. Perhaps Ffamran had once had some right in thinking himself an ugly child. His features were sharp, cheekbones and long nose, to suit a male face, and more, to suit ineffably that charm that was Ffamran's crooked smile - yet such features would not have lent themselves to any childness cuteness. "My lordship. My name. The extent of my lands. My—willingness."

"Oh, Ffamran," Basch nearly laughed, "you are uncommonly comely, if you must know."

"All lies," he said, not quite grinning, "but I appreciate your intent."

Basch ran fingers along Ffamran's jaw, finding stubble; he would need to shave Ffamran again, a task he had taken on without much compunction when in residence at Ffamran's summer house. "Your beard grows out red, did you know?"

"Truly?" Ffamran's fingertips danced along his own jaw, against the growth, and Basch caught that hand to kiss large knuckles, to weave those long fingers through his own hair. Ffamran petted him, obedient to where Basch had placed his hand. "Not so strange, perhaps. My grandfather was a redhead. And my hair?"

"Brown," Basch said, "or blonde, I can't decide and nor can it. A brown that wants to be a blonde."

"Comely," Ffamran mused, as though sounding the word. "Comely. I do believe you are the first to call me so that I dared to believe. Last night, I do recall the pirate bemoaning my height. Am I truly so tall?"

"Taller than I," Basch said. "A head taller. My eyes are level with the knot of your throat."

"Yet once I did think Noah _so_ tall—" Ffamran looked startled though his voice was merely contemplative; and this, this in truth was something that made the wry symmetry of Ffamran's features more than mere beauty. Basch could not deny the appeal of that transparency, that honesty of expression. When everyone in Archades wore a mask against the value of truth, Ffamran bore himself so unguarded, unaware of the extent of his expressiveness. Basch felt desire coil, unexpected, in the pit of his belly, for that surrendered eloquence of want and emotion Ffamran enacted through the flesh of his entire body; Basch could not rid his mind's eye of the image of Ffamran arched over him, aching, articulate without even the words. What few encounters Basch had permitted himself – rare, desperate ones, for desire had never sat well beside duty – never had Basch held someone who surrendered so wholly.

"Had you been a soldier in my guard," Basch said, against the tightness of his throat, "I would have had you train with the spear and the staff. Your height, your speed, your balance; add the benefit of length of reach to that, and you would have been untouchable."

"Not the sword? Great rescuing heros in tales only ever bear the sword."

"Your build does not suit such heroism," Basch said, running fingertips across broad, bony shoulders. "Your height would suggest a greatsword, but you have not the weight of muscle for it and do not look as though any catered diet would put it on you. Any shorter blade than a greatsword would open weaknesses, for you would have to bend to maintain a guard over your thighs and expose both your scalp to a blow and compromise your balance. No; a staff or a spear, no shield, light armour only. Speed, agility, length, to work with your native strengths."

Ffamran's lips opened and closed, wordless. Basch watched the flick of his tongue, pink and wet, a contemplative gesture tasting the words before they came. "You may think me a coward, but I had a preference for the gun," Ffamran admitted. "The great battle guns, with a kick fit to break your wrist without an appropriate grip. This was when I traveled Ivalice, before I lost my sight. We fought mostly the marlboro clans for we were ever about the old ruins and those beasts had such an attraction to the remnants of Hume greatness. Distance seemed wiser with those noxious beasts."

Then, at that, a strange jealousy: an admittance Basch had not encountered in Noah's reports, a life of Ffamran's that Basch had not heard before, a 'we' Basch could not know. "What were you doing about the ruins? Hunting marks?"

"Hunting stars," Ffamran said, with that crooked grin that had Basch's throat tighten, that coiled knot of desire unravelling into honest lust. "I kept company with a great mob of astrologers, mapping the distance between us and the stars. I helped, sometimes, calibrating the telescopes, crafting custom lenses with alchemy learned at my father's laboratory when some clumsy pawed creature or equally callow lad invariably cracked one with exuberance and inexpert packing."

"And for what purpose did you wish to know the distance between us and the stars?"

"Why," Ffamran said, and that small grin became a beatific smile, "to know the distance between us and the stars. Why else do anything, but to know?"

Basch kissed him then, sleep-tasting and all; Ffamran made a soft noise against his lips.

"You kiss more than anyone else I've known. Even your brother. I did think men rarely enjoyed kissing. I suspect you do it to silence me."

"Precisely that," Basch said, and silenced Ffamran again.

"I cannot be thus so irresistible," Ffamran protested, "that we should let that breakfast grow cold in favour of lauding the extent of my comeliness, however much I am enjoying your unusual eloquence on the matter. I also have quite a resounding headache, amongst other aches."

"I should have kept my silence, then," Basch growled, only half-mocking, "and I have a remedy for that headache, specifically."

Eating that breakfast, Basch on the floor still and Ffamran curled against the hull, took the time for the porthole's shaft of light to shift direct onto the bed now. Touched by that warmth, Ffamran tilted his face into the glow. His eyes opened, fully; the muscles of his jaw rippled as he chewed; sunlight blazed to ignite the crazed hazel of his eyes as he stared direct into that blinding light, to set aflame the barest glimmer of stubble along his jaw. Basch's breath caught at the sight of Ffamran so, such brilliance, such brilliance—

As though the reaction was a revelation of impact felt through layers of blankets, Basch watched Ffamran's pupils contract to tiny pinpricks of black, a much-belated defence against the burn of the sun's kiss.

"Ffamran," Basch said, "you take long enough to eat that a newborn calf could grow to the age fit for butchering for your next meal. Hurry up and get dressed."

"Yes," Ffamran said, and, " _my captain_ ," and though Basch did not, Ffamran laughed.

The day's heat was oppressive when Basch drew Ffamran at last out under the sky. Ffamran wore Margrace's borrowed garb too loosely, but with the bone of his ankles bared by the lack of length that, with such an introspective set to his expression, he appeared some absent-minded scholar wandering in the wake of an errant thought. It was quite a contradictory appearance to Ffamran's most recent court finery; the color of his skin appeared healthier under the sun, if still too pale.

Clouds clustered across one arch of the horizon, rapidly approaching; there would be rainfall shortly, nothing unusual across the uplands. The other side of the sky stayed clear as yet, that Margrace and Fran were lounging, part-clad with dark shoulders matching, across the length of a blanket and perusing an unrolled map. Sochen, Basch realized, approaching. The ruined palace was close, perhaps they thought of plunder; Basch could interrupt them. Yet Basch's intent, angling Ffamran's path to Fran, was compromised from an unexpected source, for a high voice spoke:

"Oh fair and fastidious fornicator Ffamran, though I have heard much of your business endeavor in Archades and aerodromia, it has been an aeon since I have been fortunate enough to set my eyes on your person! How goes it with you, young lord?"

Ffamran halted, the expression on his face suddenly sharp, incredulous. Basch stopped, turned, and saw the awkwardness as Ffamran tried to determine who approached and from where; Nono's quick appraisal of Ffamran's blind turn of face Basch read in the flick of that Moogle's ears. Ffamran's swift crouch put him at Nono's level without Basch's word.

"Do I hear he, that most monotonous of mechanics, mimicking mouthings of marketplace myth with which to greet me?"

Basch readied himself to intervene, to explain; Nono merely stepped to where Ffamran's seeking hand hovered, avoiding it, and embraced the Hume as far as his arms could reach. "It pleases me to see you still so presumptuous, Archadian."

"It would please me to see you at all," Ffamran said, as Nono disengaged, "but your stink spreads just the same, so fair greetings, Moogle. Basch did not tell me you were here, or think to mention your mechanical magicks in his stories of Ashelia's interregnum: else I would not have languished so long a-bed."

"You lie," Nono said, with that chirrup that was a Moogle's laugh; "both length and lips, for you have always languished a-bed in lieu of labour. Likewise, neither our vigilant Viera nor that irritating impudent imperiousness saw fit to enlighten me that our endeavour in Archades was to liberate you, or I would have accompanied them within!"

"Ah," Ffamran said, suddenly shy that Basch was taken aback to see it, "you would not have enjoyed that, I think. I made somewhat of a spectacle of myself."

"As though you have ever sought anything but such attention?" The Moogle made a happy sound. "I do remember each and every one of your illegal and immoral endeavours on our earlier travels, Master Ffamran, and you scarce old enough to hold the weight of your gun. I was both pleased and bemused to hear from my clan that you had taken your father's business in such Moogle-beneficial directions, for I was half certain I'd find you in Balfonheim one day, living in dubious, delightful, drunken depravity."

"You know each other," Fran said, her voice startling Basch into turning. She stood with one hand on her mostly bare hip, Margrace nonchalant and shirtless at her side.

"It turns out Nono was once a member of a band of astronomers," Margrace elaborated, with a roll of his eyes. "Doing absolutely nothing useful, just as usual—"

"And when the glossair rings slip for your damned inability to hold a true course through a shower of one single bird spitting, who hones them true again?" Nono crossed his arms, his whiskers flaring. "Not you, princely piratical popinjay."

"Nono was looking for his siblings," Ffamran said. "And the work offered in manufacturing portable telescopes and lenses a convienient pittance alongside the locations we traveled. Safety in numbers, and you were headed to the ruins regardless; so you signed yourself a tenure. I remember, somewhat – a matter of some vengeance, and a wyrm?"

"Half discovered and dealt with," Nono said, "but of no concern today, Ffamran. What brings you fleeing so precipitously from Archades' precipice? Is it the war?"

Concern had filled Basch to this point of how to deflect the queries as to Ffamran's blinding; his expectation had been entirely for Nono's query to come along that path. The Moogle's actual question jolted him into bluntness.

"War?" Basch interrupted the light precursor of Ffamran's half-begun reply. "It's merely a martial blockade, Nono."

Margrace and Fran exchanged a glance; Nono's whiskers flattened.

"Last night, in Fran and Margrace's absence and with no maintainence to be done on the _Little Bird_ , I ventured into Sochen," the Moogle said, almost sing-song, "in search of somewhat of small significance to you that I shall not send you to sleep with the song; at dawn I found myself closer to Old Archades than the ship, so sought solace there. Therein I found a mania of madnesses, for in upper Archades a full-scale rebellion of arms and aggression had at last erupted; rumour sang songs of the death of the two great lords warring over Vayne's empty throne, of an old family's curse corrupted, to claim the last scions of two families instead of the one; in their absence a hungry heartache to horrify the hordes, for young men and soldiers wielded weapons to wound not to warn. The sole Solidor slain. The last Bunansa butchered. Anarchy abides across great Archades."

In that stunned silence, Ffamran rose from his knees and said, plaintive: "Why I am the one that get butchered, you malicious Moogle, while Larsa gets the extravagent literary dignity of being slain?"

"Tis the alliteration," Nono said, "argue not with the accomplishments of alliteration; blame your Bunansa sire for his brand's blight."

"Gods," Basch said, and only at the exclamation did the full extent of his horror unravel, an ugly thing to rear its head that the day seemed impossibly dark. "What have we done? The spark to the tinderbox! What have you done, pirates, and for what gain?"

"It's only rumour," Margrace said, swift, "rumour would have had you dead twice over, Basch, and you are not."

"We need to get back in there," Basch said, and strove to keep his voice level, his expression moderate, "Zargabaath will be hard pressed to keep the palace; if Larsa is alive— Why do you all stare at me so?"

For indeed they did stare, even Ffamran with the tilt of his head and eyes wide at what he must hear in Basch's voice, Fran and Nono with the askance set of their ears, Margrace with a smile more sad than sarcastic.

"Of course we must get back inside," Ffamran said into that silence, smooth, a voice of cool certain directive that Basch had not heard before. "We are not pirates, free to fly where we will. We have duties, to a city, to our people, to our _sovereign_. My behaviour has compromised Archades' stability for long enough. Of course we must get back inside; amends must be made."

"This is the first time I've ever heard of someone being buggered back into sensibility," said Margrace. "Whatever that politics often shafts a man unexpectedly, it is rarely with sensibility as the consequence."

"I have heard stranger tales," Fran admitted. Her eyes were suspiciously bland, yet her ears were awry, flicking; Basch near wanted to slap them still, for what remote anxiety that expressed it could be nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the turmoil that weighted his gut alongside that breakfast suddenly cold, over-greased, nauseating. "You do not have to return, Ffamran. It was for this purpose that we have brought you and Basch outside the city's extents: that you could feel your way true together without Archadian constriction to force a way. We did not mean for such a disturbance to occur in the city, for our thought was only for an old friend who had been alone too long."

Their words should have been snide, yet Basch could not detect a trace of humour therein. Larsa, _Larsa_ ; he never should have listened to the pirates, he never should have fallen prey to the so-long ignored weakness inherent in his own flesh, _duty_ could not abide _desire_ , should not, and Larsa was the price to pay for such learning, such indulgence –

"How does a man live with this," Basch muttered. His fingers were in hard motion along his jaw, repetitive, seeking a beard lost for Basch had shaved for his brother's sake. "Every day, how can one live so, loyalty due to so many? I have ever and always only followed a single source of truth, kept true to a single thought, a single path; for Larsa's sake did I apply myself to Ffamran's cause, but now find myself with too many paths."

"No," Ffamran said, "just the one, for I am going back to Archades." He shrugged, callous and cautious both. "You may follow if you wish, or flee with the pirates, I have no concern whichever way. Basch, I know you set out on this task to forcibly take me to Larsa that the debate of Archades' vote could be resolved; I did resent that, but when our path turned I could remember that you are a man as well as Larsa's servant. It is ill of me, of my own whim and the pirates' willingness, to tempt you to wander further astray from your dutiful purpose."

"Tempt me," Basch said, snarled, spat, "ah tempt me, you and Larsa both, so many years I've kept my devotion to the one, for I had witnessed others die to try to satisfy multiple masters, my brother, oh Ffamran, what else killed my _brother_ but that diversity? Larsa is dead, Ffamran, and how can I resign myself to that. How many times must I fail before I learn this one, solitary lesson: I cannot spread my devotions! No brother no lover no lord, only one master, one truth. Raminas – not Rasler, Dalmasca – not Ashelia, Larsa – not you! What weakness resides in my flesh that I could succumb so profoundly to your offering that my head followed my hunger?"

"Solidors are such snakes," Ffamran mused, calm. "One thinks they are solidly decapitated, but they rise again, again, twin-headed."

"How long will you wait, Ffamran?" Fran said, so sharp of a sudden.

"For what do you mean?"

"For Basch," Margrace said.

"Why," Ffamran replied, still so calm, so cool, "I think I could wait all my life. What else have I?"

At that Basch found himself, fists in the steaming slick grass, dirt on his hands; he was kneeling, his knees sinking into that soft dirt, his hands driven into that ground for the sheer impotence of any like action, gods, gods, he wanted to shout and could not; his lip burned for the mark of his teeth on it; his chest ached. He failed, he failed, again again in the same way; the gods truly used his life as a jest.

"Shall we teleport?" Ffamran asked, over Basch's head; Basch could hear the voice yet not respond, not yet. Half of him wanted to hurt that voice; the other half hungered.

"You can't," Nono replied. "My clan lifted me out of Archades just before the final level of paling blockade was activated. Nothing of any make or magic works within the city now; even the electricity has been surrendered, the paling fully opaque to the exterior. The only way in is a manual one."

"Sochen," Fran said, cool enough to match Ffamran's tone.

"Sochen," Margrace said, sourly. "Not again."

"Sochen," Nono said, and he was almost eager.

"It will take too long," Basch mourned, and surrended handfuls of grass to the sky. "If Larsa is not already dead, he will be by the time we navigate through."

"A day to prepare," Fran said, "for Ffamran cannot be expected to fight as he is, and we cannot have afford a liability in those ruins. Only a day to navigate, Basch, for we have maps now. We will not wander as we did with Ashelia at our head."

"If Larsa is already dead then he will stay dead," Ffamran said, "if he lives, then Zargabaath will keep him alive. Come, Basch, your every moment indulging in misery delays us."

Basch could not make himself laugh, snarling instead. "You—you—dare talk of indulgent moments? Larsa's life, Ivalice's peace, all for your own languor?"

–but he also made the mistake of glancing up as he spat, and he saw Ffamran's face crumple, his lids tight against that grief within.

"I know what I have done," Ffamran said, quietly, that serenity belying his expression. "You have asked me to speak honestly, so I say this: I cannot be sorry, not for either Larsa or Archades, but that this shatters whatever fragile bridge of flesh we had built between us. So be it."

Basch stood, slowly; Fran and Margrace stepped back for whatever the expression was on his face, a muscular set unfamiliar to him. Only Nono did not retreat, standing still by Ffamran's side, his whiskers hard and wide-spread.

"Consider, Basch," Ffamran said, "no object can possibly be so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly. Perhaps I look so to you, now."

"Spare me your inane complexities of speech—"

Ffamran brought a hand up to touch the skin around his eyes, gingerly, as though he expected to find a wound or a wetness; Basch could not think around the stifling pain that devoured him to find remnant sympathy. "I did begrudge Larsa firstly for I thought he played a cruel game with my affections, and you as gamepiece. Last night, your words, your actions. Perhaps I had misjudged, for even a happenstance of meeting could be a fortuitous one. Now I find that my first assumption far closer. Consider, then, and plainly spoken: you are well free of any promise made to me, either to me or via Larsa's command." Ffamran cleared his throat. "I can all but smell the anxiety off you, Basch, the anger. I would not have you suffer so again, for my fickleness."

"Ffamran," Basch began, but could not speak further, for what could he say? That guilt, that rage, it near throttled him. To speak against Ffamran's word would be to bind himself further. He could not, could not, _afford_ such—

"Do you see the problem, Fran?" Margrace said, wearily. "It is a matter of blindness, verily."

"Archadians enjoy crippling themselves," Fran said. "We have done what we may."

"Whatever you pirates speak of," Ffamran said, rough, "I can only guess, and an Archadian never supposes when he can know. You mentioned earlier of making me fit to venture Sochen without proving a liability. Let us commence that, then."

"Indeed, my lord," Margrace said, with ill-grace. "Come with me, here's my arm and follow, let us size you with somewhat from our defensive armory first."

Basch could not watch them go, Ffamran's arm through Margrace's; for a moment he wondered if he should instruct the pirate to woo the Archadian that Ffamran could forget this sooner – but, no, sheer idiocy, sheer vainness, and such biting pain flared at that image in his mind that Basch closed his eyes, breathing slow through his mouth that he could find some control.

Fran's hand curled on Basch's shoulder, tight enough that her claws rested flush with his flesh.

"You have a capacity for cruelty that I had not suspected."

"Ffamran is not fragile," Basch repeated, "he is not."

"My meaning was not of cruelty towards Ffamran."

"It is that idiocy of height," Nono said, assuredly; Basch opened his eyes and found his vision blurred as he looked down. "The brainpower is much diffused over the extent of such limbs."

Fran cleared her throat –

"Present company exempt," Nono corrected. He glanced up, around, and amended, "present long-eared company exempt."

"Do you still keep our armory intact?" Basch asked, rough, ready, raging, oh, this – at last, a welcome rage for its surcease could be found in weapons instead of words, and that cold joy that filled him now could only be a further shame, that he did so hunger for this honest fight against what would await him in Archades. He was never made for life in a courtier's garb, never, and a lie to the very core of his being to thus so pretend.

"We do," Nono said, and Fran added: "Though Ashelia claimed Tournesol."

"Durandal, then," Basch said, growled, "and I will welcome that sword back like a long-lost brother."  
.

  



	14. Chapter 14

Basch had not known what to expect, a blind man fighting, but Margrace seemed to think it no unusual thing. Even Nono instructed Ffamran as though the man merely unpracticed instead of incapable. It seemed foolishness, a game, a pandering to his lordship's whim; Basch could fight through Sochen with Al-Cid and Fran, and Ffamran could wait; they would return for him later—

Such a thing was not possible. He may have wished for it, an easy way, Larsa to be safe, hidden; Basch knew there could be no simple way here. Larsa was dead; Ffamran would be Emperor, then. Larsa was not, well, then; Basch would not wish, for wishes could only be frustrated. Ffamran would come with them through Sochen; against the confines of the cave-palace, the press of the beasts within, they would be sore-pressed to ensure Ffamran did not fall behind, or fall hurt.

Where Ffamran's disappearance had instigated this city riot, Basch doubted his reappearance could resolve it; what word or face could stop a nation's broken rebellion?

The day's wait allowed Basch's agony to full flower.

Not an assistance was Ffamran's own visible distress under the press of the pirates. Margrace and Nono called instructions, warnings, directions. Ffamran was not there to fight, to strike; they had him stand to defend, to move, to keep with them regardless of pace, of terrain. Ffamran stumbled less so for his incompetence at that than his visible fear of that possibility of failure, until Margrace turned and yelled, so thick-accented in his strain: "You prefer to fall behind and die than fall once or twice on your face?"

"Yes," Ffamran shouted, "yes, gods, have you any idea what this is like? I've never been down there; I'll be lost! I've never fought like this! What am I, some master of weaponry with fifty years of practice behind me that I can avoid a blow I can't see coming?"

"Enough," Basch said, at last; he drew himself out of the _Little Bird's_ shade, tugged his shorts straight, and approached.

Ffamran's face turned at the sound of footsteps though his stiff-set shoulders did not, his expression unreadable. Sweat darkened caramel hair at the temples, flattened that unruly wave. Basch looked instead at Margrace, and found that man's expression almost, inexplicably, angered.

Avoidance; Basch knew it. He would not look at Ffamran though the urge lingered, hungered. The leather that Margrace had found to fit Ffamran sat overtight, huggingly so. Basch had never seen such a thing, the entireity of the piece made out of plaited leather, basket-weave almost that the garb stretched around limbs and joints without a single point of weakness. The sole solid panels of leather, boned with abstract curls of mythril, were sited only where a direct blow would have caused fatal injury. The rest, the rest, that weave; altogether too much of Ffamran's pale flesh showed through that weave, but uncompromisingly that Basch could not consider a complaint for vulnerability an excuse to have Margrace find another set of garb. Plate or mail, akin to what Basch wore and achingly reminiscent of his old garb in the Order, could have afforded Ffamran more protection, at a loss of speed.

Basch could not find it in himself to air a protest, though such a thing filled his throat with guilt; for that lingering fit along Ffamran's flesh, for eyes that wanted to stray.

"Ffamran," Basch said, "my lord, you will walk at my side, close enough that I can shield you; Margrace and Fran will flank to the sides, and we shall fall back to defend when attacked. Margrace, give him a staff that he can feel his way."

Margrace's mouth opened, half a snarl that Basch started to realize that anger was directed at he, not Ffamran. Yet it was that Archadian that stepped between, graceful though his lips were still parted for want of breath.

"Margrace," Ffamran said, "my apologies for my temper. It's the heat; the remnant smoke; I'm hungry and have a headache fit to kill, me or someone else. Kindly withhold your laughter when I fall on my face; let's go again."

"Certainly," Margrace said, cool again, "your apologies are unnecessary; it is indeed the heat, and I assure you I would not laugh but offer my hand. Bear left, and follow my sound."

Margrace loped with slow ease this time, a ground-hungry pace nevertheless less taxing than a sprint; Ffamran hesitated, his head tilted as if to better hear, and then he pursued to very nearly match Margrace's speed. Basch could read in the tension across Ffamran's shoulders that fear, the ground unknown, sloping. He should have stumbled, for length of leg if nothing else, but for the occasional jarring step Ffamran did not fall.

"You Humes put altogether too much value in your sight, solely because it is the one sense you possess sharper than any of ours." Nono made a huff, a snort, and rubbed his nose to continue. "Seeing is believing, you say; I see, I see, as though sight were the one true sense and smell, sound, sensation all lesser. Viera, Moogle, Bangaa, even sly snorting Seeq; blind one of us and we should not consider ourselves incapacitated."

Basch looked down only for long enough to ascertain Nono's patience, and turned hs eyes back to where Ffamran ran. "He has not your animal sense of smell, nor your hearing."

"Animal?" Nono asked, and wrinkled his nose. "Ah, well, if that is the word you wish to use. Ffamran was always rather _animal_ , then, back when I first knew him; simple and selfish; instinctual and impulsive. How he handled his guns, deft, in the dark, the depth of starlight the only suggestion of shape, he would stand astride crumbling castles to castigate– what, what? –but shadow, or shifting shape, or uncertainty? – no. He would hear the marlboro stir, he could smell the stink, and he would fire, with finness; the scream of a shot-struck beast shattered the night; a smile's ready spread to stir that hesitant Hume's honour-bound heart."

"Somewhere, someone had taught him to mistrust his senses. He is greedy, to demand sight as well as everything other."

Basch turned, nodded a vague greeting as Fran approached. Her face expressionless, she ignored him in favour of watching that distant pair. Margrace stood back to back with Ffamran and had him move, synchronized, that they did not bare vulnerability to the imaginary beasts. Fran hummed a contemplative sound, such wariness therein that Basch considered if perhaps he would find an ally in his aim to take this foolishness of fighting from Ffamran's head.

Yet, then; Fran drew one of her great guns from the trio slung about her person, one at each hip and the third across her back. "Call him over; let us see how true his aim holds."

Basch could not restrain the protest. "Well enough if he can shoot a still target, even a moving one with enough luck and help, but we will be out there. How shall he distinguish between us or an enemy?"

"Strategy," Fran said. "What else did our travails teach us, Basch, but that every beast has strength, weakness, all for avoidance or exploitation? Sad to overlook the potential that Ffamran may offer us."

"You found it then?" Nono asked. "I had never thought the thing to be useful; the spell would wear off often before the technick could be applied."

"Ffamran's blindness has not such a time constraint." Fran raised an arm and waved, vigorous, to set her sleeves fluttering; Margrace hollered an acknowledgement and, without further warning, _sprinted_ back to the camp. Ffamran floundered a moment in his sudden disappearance, that Basch took swift steps forward as though to go to his aid.

Fran's hand fell heavy on his shoulder, halting him. Ffamran walked, though slowly, his head tilted up towards the cloud-heavy sky as though using that veiled sun as a compass – for even without that clear direction he came, unerringly.

"So many children for a childless man." Fran's smile was in the set of her ears, her gaze distant. "Ashelia; Larsa; Ffamran. This time will teach you; everything, everyone changes, grows, old or stupid or wise, as it were. Even the eternity that is a city stands in stasis only for as long as you watch it; bound by the act of perception where it should be freed, by revelation. Glance away, and back; all has changed."

Margrace arrived, vibrant for all the pounding effort of his sprint – "ah, see, your lithe lordling does well enough on his own, Basch!"

"Foolishness," Basch growled, "no, Margrace: _stupidity_. At the best we will navigate with Ffamran at our heart and be forced to defend from a stationary position. What game do you think to play here, indulgent, indulging – indulging yourself, perhaps, preying pirate?"

"I am aghast," Margrace said, "you insult me, ever and always. Had I wished to seduce the man I would have done it while I had him naked before me, awaiting my attentions to assist with his dress. And—" Margrace took a half step back, tipping his glasses to bare the surprise beneath, "get your berserker sense under control, man, for that indulgence I distinctly did _not_."

"Did not what?" Ffamran called; Basch stepped away from Margrace, unaware he had even pressed so close. He turned instead to where Ffamran made his way up the steep slope to where they all stood. When Ffamran slipped to plant one leather-laced knee in the grass, Ffamran gritted his teeth and steadily resumed the climb.

"Did not do something stupid," Margrace replied.

"Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing," Ffamran said, "I find it is always for the noblest of motives."

Margrace laughed at that. "I won't believe you. Nobility never needs motives even if it does have abundant stupidity. Tis only the hapless citizen who thinks he needs either motives or nobility."

"I should be insulted, but I'm too damned tired. You've run me to the ground." " Ffamran stretched when he reached their proximity, so that his leather groaned, and Basch had to step out of the way of his unwary fist.

"It's scarcely midmorning!" Margrace said. "Whatever deprivation of clean air you've suffered, you can't be tired midmorning."

"Lunch, then," Nono said, "no languorous leisure, but time for learning ancient lore though newly rediscovered, just for you, Master Ffamran."

"It will avail nothing," Basch said. "Let him rest."

Ffamran visibly drew his shoulders straight, and swallowed a yawn. "What would you have me do, maleficent Moogle?"

"Why," said Fran, "learn a lifetime of thaumaturgy in a single afternoon."

"Ah," Ffamran said, "nothing too taxing, then."

Basch had never been one to avail himself of technicks to any great extent. His skill with the blade, with weaponry, had proved sufficient knowledge to enable him to serve; it had been this way since his youth, where Noah would read and chaunt, memorise and practice which Basch instead ran, trained, threatened the local wilderness with an unready blade. Thus did he first learn of the lore, and knew of its uses; Basch could count the hours Vossler had spent in study of telekinesis that he could strike without proximity, the days of dedication behind Vaan's study of every sly transmutation of their travails into a weapon. Whatever Fran thought to teach Ffamran, he wondered at the use of such an effort, for surely they had not the time to teach?

Basch did not speak to complain; this, at least, was not the foolishness of fighting that Margrace had insisted on. Basch busied himself with food and preparation, as the pirates did not seem so enraptured of such a task compared to accommodating whatever whim Ffamran provoked in them. They did seem quite grateful when he descended from the _Little Bird_ to return to them a substantive lunch, however.

By then, the sunlight bared the evident frustration on Ffamran's sun-kissed face - "One thing that has ever stopped me with such skills, my lady – when one cannot read, one cannot study."

"Then," Fran said, "you will listen."

Their persistence took the form of singsong instruction, Fran and Nono in eerie counterpoint – "A focus," Margrace said, "that clears the mind for the extent of the technick." Ffamran struggled to retain his good humour against that; Margrace attended with a scarce helpful anecdote, a mouthy interruption around his application to lunch.

Basch settled himself away, far enough that all he could hear was the occasional pitched hum – but he could see, could read the extent of Ffamran's mood in the shifting plane of his shoulders. Ah, so short a time, yet Ffamran proved easier to read even with only a few months compared to the years knowing Ashelia; this lordling was most perturbed.

Ffamran's mood had never tended to the caustic when he could focus on a singular attendant. Noah had noted such in his reports; Basch had experienced that, the wry sharp tongue that performed as soon as more than one pair of eyes were present. As the Archadian swiveled to face not one but three sources of instruction, Basch could read the acid intent growing. It astounded him then that Ffamran instead kept his usual bitterness bound; he nodded, and listened, so patient, so unlike himself, that Basch could not abide.

"I'm going into the Uplands," Basch said, as he stalked past their circle, "to oil my blade on a beast's hide."

Yet, he did not draw Durandal though his palms itched to strike, at something.

Perhaps it had been that recurrent thought of his brother; Noah had always reverted to force when frustrated, that Basch could not acknowledge such a thing. He had no right to be frustrated, thus Basch ran instead of fighting. He circled about the prides of couerl whose stink gave away their presence, kept well distant from the ruins and their conglomerate nattering hoards of marlboro. The weight of his borrowed mail was light, far lighter than Noah's magister plate armour, that running like this felt like a memory, a dreamlike fluidity of the flesh. The weeks, the months of measured tread of Noah's full plate restriction melted away. Basch ran, as he had in his youth compared to the stolid sure tread of his brother; Basch ran, ran thoughtlessly and in solitude, only the stretch of muscle, the burn, the regulated breath for contemplation; like this he had only his flesh to consider, no words, no memory of Ffamran's vow of distance from the day before, nothing of the night's cold insomnia; that cold solitude but for echoes of Larsa, silent but for Ffamran's soft sleeping breath up on the bunk. Basch could not permit himself to contemplate Ffamran's stubbornness now that would probably get the man killed.

Between one stretched step and the next, Basch closed his eyes.

At last, after all the afternoon seeped away in avoidance of the beasts, it was the ricochet of gunfire that had Basch head back. The nape of his neck was stingingly sunburnt by then, for he lacked the length of hair that had protected him in Ashelia's cohort. The fresh scrapes on his knees cracked, bleeding anew with his pace. Sweat stung in the rawness of his palms when he sighted what had that gunshot – first, second – echo through the humid air.

Basch drew Durandal and set himself to greater speed, too late, too late. A coeurl's body lay crumpled, another struggling, dragging itself away as though mortally wounded, but the third, the third ran – Margrace and Fran did nothing – nothing! – not even their weapons drawn where they stood well away from Ffamran's stiff posture; he stood, braced, steady, Fran's gun held one handed and deft for all that length, that weight, his face turned away – not even in the direction he should fire – not even, towards that coeurl whose snarling lope brought it closer—

A slow exhalation; Ffamran's arm steadied, that wavering tip of the gun firmed, his eyes opened, still away, still away, and when he at last ran out of air Basch saw that moment of precise, perfect stillness, a gunman's unnatural calm, and then, the flame, the flare, the shot.

Not true. Of course not true, but close, closer than Basch had thought Ffamran could or would target. Still, that bullet should not have even winged the coeurl.

The coeurl missed its stride, wept a sharp, whimpering aroo, and crumpled. Its forward momentum had it tumble still, a massive weight to match Ffamran's even slack, but that Fran pulled Ffamran out of the way and Margrace leapt; Basch ran, arrived, and not too late.

"It worked?" Ffamran asked, too serious a tone for the grin that would not stay away from the corners of his lips. "Third time perfect?"

"Fortuitously so," Fran said. "The technick at the moment of firing proved sufficient?"

"A strange feeling," Ffamran replied, "to surrender even the modicum of control to a spell, but if it works—"

"What is this," Basch asked, cried. He slammed Durandal home, grabbed at Ffamran instead to turn that smirk to where he could see it.

It was Fran who answered him. "Sight Unseeing, a thaumaturgy of technick laid on the bullet, to call its spin to a visualized target instead of the visible. Of great use at delivering nigh-critical strikes, for the mind can visualize a target as precise as the small fluttering valve of a heart, where the eyes would see only a chest. The sole liability; that a man must be blinded to focus so accurately."

"A liability, that blindness, were it not unavoidable," Margrace said. "Now it is a weapon."

"I made a spell," Ffamran said, "to give the bullet a mind, my mind; in metal, Basch. My mind, bound in metal, bound in the spaces between the pieces that say 'metal'; that was where I was, between 'what is' and 'what could be'. I felt the wind as I passed; I felt the blood as I hit, warm and wet; and I turned, and burrowed, and found – a heart, Basch, and it fluttered; it shattered when I touched it—"

Basch could say nothing, suggest nothing, but he had his hands still spread on Ffamran's upper arms, palms wet and stinging on that braided leather. Ffamran raised an arm, wrapped a hand about Basch's wrist, and tightened.

Ffamran's return grip was a surprise, almost as warm as the man's smile.

"Well," Basch said, helplessly, "I see."

"Sharp," Ffamran added, still musing. "The world is very sharp, the way a bullet sees. A much better dream than the smoke."

"At dawn, then," Margrace said, "let us dare Sochen with a full alchemical inventory and a new thaumaturgy; perhaps this time the going shall be easier for having passed once."

"Spoken like a true virgin," Ffamran appended, to step away; Basch wiped his palms dry of blood and sweat on his own shirt. He left no mark on the dark shining leather of Ffamran's garb.

"What happened to you?" Nono asked, with a firm tug at Basch's shorts. "A curious coeurl? A malicious marlboro?"

"I tripped," Basch said; Margrace and Fran had led Ffamran far away enough that he would be out of earshot. "I fell. Nothing spectacular."

"Though quite a spectacle," Nono said, "had any been present to see it. Did you fall off the side of the earth, or merely from the apex of a mighty myst-wrought mountain?"

That night they packed; a day's worth of travel yet a month's worth of itinerary. They did not take food – "worthless weight," Fran said, "if we are in Sochen long enough to need to eat we are lost beyond redemption" –nor further weaponry beyond the staff set to be bound across Ffamran's back. They did take water, though, drawn from the _Little Bird_ 's still tanks; water, bullets, potions in excess. "Would that Penelo were still available," Margrace mourned when he surveyed the pile of that latter, "a finer-crafted magecraftsman I have yet to encounter."

They ate of the rare viable flesh of Ffamran's slain prey, and set aside the roasted meat for the morrow. Nono sat still beside the Mooglecraft stovetop, the remnant heat radiating with the sharp ping of cooling metal; he looked unwilling enough to move. Basch reached to touch Ffamran's shoulder, startling whatever close-eyed reverie had taken the man after sating himself past satisfaction.

"To bed, my lord, we will be up before dawn."

"No," Ffamran said, "you bedded on the floor last night and did not sleep at all from the set of your temper today. You sleep easy tonight and not in my presence. I'll stay out here."

"It will get cold—"

"Give me blankets," Ffamran said, "a pillow, I'll sleep in Margrace's old shirtsleeves; I'll pretend I can see the stars. A shame I can't target them with Fran's technick."

"Oh," Nono said, suddenly startled, "assuredly that technick is an old, old one, Ffamran; perhaps you could re-write it for such a task."

"The mathematics would be impossible," Ffamran laughed. "Where is the triangulation to determine the distances, mad Moogle? I stand as a fixed point, the motion of the beast is the target, the fixed mass of the earth the third vertex in that calculation—"

"Yet you know as well as I that the earth which seems so sturdy instead spins like a stoned Solidor at a sunset celebration; consider instead your assumptive equation flawed for the earth is ever in motion, if predictable; the stars are likewise predictable; perhaps it is merely your own flesh the fickle fallible figure in that trinity."

"You intrigue me," Ffamran said, that dismissive smile falling into an expression far more contemplative. "Would that I could draft the way I used to, for I'm sure I see a gap in your logic but without ink to design the diagram–"

"A matter of memory," Nono said, disdainfully; "What Moogle has ever used imperfect implements when memory could hold sharp and true instead?"

"Unless some mystic malady malformed my face along with my ability to make use of mirrors, I was unaware of having been turned into a Moogle." Ffamran felt along the ground beside him, fingertips light across the grass until he found his discarded fork from supper. "Here, take me to a clean patch of earth, I'll draw you what I mean; if we are to target something that far distant as a star, then the technick needs a far greater distance for a point of triangulation or the errors, _simply_ compound–"

"The moon," Nono said, whiskers flicking rhythmically, " _simply_ , the sun."

Basch tried to intervene, once, twice; neither the Moogle nor the Archadian listened. Only when he realized he could no longer see his hand in front of his face did Basch capitulate; he sourced Fran's outdoor blankets, a stray shirt, and set up the bed away enough from where they had eaten that midnight scorpions would not cause injury.

"My thanks," Ffamran said, as Basch led him to the bed and placed his hand on the turned edge. At the mouth of the airship, some sentiment had Basch turn back as to give one last try to call the man to bed inside. He could not look away then, for Ffamran peeled off his leathers as he stood, uncaring for Nono's arguing presence nor the expanse of the sky overhead; he was especially diligent in ensuring all the laces and buckles aligned before he lay the doffed garb where he could reach it in the morning. Such precision in that motion, such possessive care; Basch ached, unwillingly, and forced himself to bed. He could still hear Ffamran and Nono arguing, debating; Ffamran's occasional delighted laugh; Basch did not pull the pillow over his head, for it smelled of Ffamran's hair from the night before, and the night before that—oh, he ached, stinging knees and demanding desire all. He ached now, at night, when he could not use the day's distractions as a reminder of duty. He did not relieve himself of worry, tension, desire. His flesh was not – had never been – his own to command.

Navigating to Sochen in pre-dawn's light proved a facile ease of teamwork. Nono stayed behind, unwilling enough to broach Sochen so soon – "stay away from the wyrms," he warned, "they're riled," that Margrace rebutted, "only because you stirred them so!" With the four of them, Ffamran middling, Fran behind, Margrace with his spear and Basch with his sword to flank forward, they moved, almost in unison. When the early-minded coeurl approached, Margrace called; Ffamran took the first shot, every time; what remnant of mortally wounded beast left was dispatched with a single, easy blow such that Fran stopped bothering to draw her own guns.

Ffamran's stride took on a decidedly cocky swagger.

"We will see how well this strategy works in Sochen," Basch said, disgruntled. "There is neither the time nor the space to allow such strategic play; we will be pressed, hardpressed, and most likely cornered. The beasts are thick."

"I have my staff," Ffamran said, "to fall back on. After that shot I'll stand back, behind Fran or you, Basch, and wait for your word."

How Basch regretted his nay-saying word once they did gain the mouth of Sochen, that dank cave heaving with the stink of undead – as though his word had been their downfall.

"Faugh," Ffamran coughed, "it smells like…wrongness."

"Zombie flesh," Margrace said. "Past even rot, by now. I doubt you would have encountered this before, my lord; your travels seemed always to site you under the sky. Zombies only ever linger as they did in life: under a roof."

"Fallen once-Archadians," Ffamran said, his interest undeniable even as he scrubbed at his nose. "All astir for the riots above?"

"Such a sentiment would be gifting the beasts with too much connection to a country's impermanent name," Fran said, "too much recollection of life under an Archadian sky; they have not the wit for such a thing. Just flesh, and hunger, mindlessly obeying the word of their magicked command."

"Such a habit strikes me as strangely familiar," Margrace said, "eh, Basch?"

"Take yourself to hell, Margrace."

The scarce light that filtered through Sochen's malformed roof lit the way, just enough to make it disturbing, again. Basch had never had such concerns with confinement compared to heights, though; he slowly assumed the lead where Margrace fell behind, the pirate bemoaning the clamminess of the cave.

The first shambling undead that approached, Basch stood to the side. "Yours, Ffamran."

Everything went as expected, Ffamran's slow exhalation and the concentration evident on his face, the release of his bullet, even the precise corrected direction of that errant curve – but, but, when it struck –

Ffamran retched, dry, recoiled, near dropping his borrowed gun. "Gods," he swore, and grinned with a pained expression at the ceiling even as his throat worked to surrender his once-tasted breakfast. "Draw your blades, I can do nothing to it. It's all—inside, it's all dry. What good targeting a heart when it can't strike a beat?"

Margrace and Fran exchanged something in a wordless glance; Margrace unslung that long spear even as Fran moved to the fore, lifting her daggers instead of her gun. Basch put his back to Ffamran, close enough to feel that still-shivering warmth, and drew Durandal as another undead shifted about the corner.

"Are you well?" Basch asked.

"I want a bath," Ffamran said. "Imagine thrusting your mind into the midst of that morass. Repulsive, Basch, utterly rank. When I die burn my body, will you?"

"Yes, my lord." Basch shifted his shoulders, set them square; he could feel Ffamran turning to set his own height in inversion. "Though if you want the bath to come before the burning, I suggest you wield your staff and ready your guard."

The shallow heights of Sochen were light enough, of ease enough; the undead were scarce here that Ffamran still took his shot frequently at the various live fiends that dwelled in strange symbiosis. The deeper they delved, though, the darkness thickened, until only zombie flesh walked for no other sustenance could be found for even the least fussy of fiends.

"It surely wasn't this dark last time?" Margrace asked, his voice a stern whisper for the weight of the cave.

"Last time there were numerous torches." Basch could barely see Fran's silhouette, and that only for the white curve of her ears; she touched something on the wall. "They are warm still; shall we light them?"

"Who lit them to begin with," Basch asked, "who put them out? Will we not merely make of ourselves a target?"

"It's the wyrm-hunters," Ffamran said; his voice came unexpectedly loud from the darkness, no whisper where the rest of them spoke with that hushed hesitance the cave and its blackness provoked. "And the wyrms that put them out. There are two of those, great ones, in residence here, and the hunters light the way that others can walk it. Nono told me his venture down here was to sight the pair, to take their measure; he dallied with them while you dallied with me, in Archades."

"Why does Nono _speak_ to you when to me the furred festering fiend just spouts insult–"

Margrace's plaintive comment was silenced by a shivering roar, a sound that came from the heart of the stone beneath them so they did not first think it a cry but rather a quake. Basch clutched at the wall for some solidity. His ears rang in the aftermath.

"If that is one of Nono's wyrms, I would rather not know."

Fran spoke in Margrace's wake. "Are they fire wyrms?"

"Yes," Ffamran said. "So Nono said."

"So," said Fran, dryly, "no lighting of flame then; I shall curse the Moogle for rousing the beasts that they wander in this darkness apace with us. Ffamran, will you take the lead?"

"I—"

"You are the best at determining the path in total darkness; another circuit of depth and we shall be all as blind as you, with less experience in navigation. Would that we had you study the map, but instead, tell us what paths you feel; we shall meet every junction with consensus."

Their pace turned to a limping one after that, for consensus was never as simple a matter as that. Ffamran hesitated often enough that Basch walked into the back of him, too often; when he growled a curse regarding the possibility of knocking the man into a chasm, Ffamran made a disdainful sound – "what palace, even an old Archadian one, had chasms on the ground floor?"

Ffamran felt openings as a movement of air. "Fresh to the left," he would say, "stinking of serpent to the right so we'll not go that way, dry to the fore." Fran invariably concurred with his perception, with that fleshy flap of sound that Basch began to recognize as the violent twitch of her ear for punctuation; nevertheless, they could not feel a way by such a thing.

"How many rights," Margrace asked, "how many lefts, how many forks have we passed?"

"I can be precise about four junctions," Ffamran said, "uncertain about what felt like another six random openings, left or right, atop that. Margrace, I can't give you more."

"Then follow the fresh," Fran said. "The air shall lead to the open sky, eventually."

"And when it is back at the Tchita gate instead of Old Archades?" Basch could not resist asking.

"We should have been better prepared," Margrace said. "But every other time we passed here there had been sufficient light! Oh, womb of the earth, to swallow me without that scant succor from the sky."

"Skypirates are accustomed to winging it," Basch said. "Or so one told me, once. Now get me to Archades, Ffamran."

The first time they fought in that near-total blackness it began with Ffamran's warning; Basch felt the man brush against him, three quick steps back, and then he stopped, laughed, and said: "All's fair in the dark, Basch?"

Basch could not have conceived that Ffamran would hurl himself forward at that shuffling horror that hungered, or he could have held the man back with that brief touch. Instead he heard the scrape of Ffamran's boot on the stone, the impact of staff against sick, wet flesh, Ffamran's sudden harsh breath.

Durandal sang when it came from the sheath; Basch had Ffamran's shoulder in his other hand, and pulled, back, away; the half-felt form of the zombie crumpled with a single blow.

"I still have years of experience on you yet," Basch said, striving for calm. "I would not let an untried youth – an untried man – take any battle above his experience; not again, for twice over I've learned that lesson the most difficult way. You will fall back the next time something approaches."

"Something approaches," Ffamran said; in the dark they stood too close, that Basch could feel the breath from those words on his cheek. "To your right, my left."

Basch was spinning, too desperate against the hungry darkness to consider words or Ffamran's compliance, for stinking clawed flesh reached for him again, again. He heard Fran's cry, Margrace's shout; could not think until there was silence again, but for their harsh breath. Basch's bare arms stung with the lacerations, that he drank potion like water and would regret such haste on the morrow.

"Let's not do that again," Margrace said, his cheerfulness strained. "I hate caves near as much as I hate palaces."

"Ffamran," Basch called. "Ffamran!"

"Here," came the voice, far distant. Basch spun, wondering how Ffamran had got so far past the fight. "There's a shift in the air up here."

The cave ahead was flooded with light, not so bright compared to true daylight but enough that Margrace let slide a shuddering breath, that Basch had to squint his eyes. Sand filtered into the air from above, a silvered spill reminiscent of water that he realized how much thirst he felt over the false quaff of potion. Great chasms, whatever Ffamran's earlier commentary, split the terrain, a thankful terrestrial happenstance for Basch could see the distant shamble of further undead pent by the gaps.

When he turned at last to Ffamran, he saw how chapped the man's lips were, recognized the matching thirst. "Here, my lord, drink."

Ffamran took the proffered flask and drank, tilting his head back to pour rather than setting the mouth at his lips. That scarce stream of water glittered. Basch looked away.

"Where are we?"

"No where I know," Margrace said, dismayed. "The map, Fran, that we can see where we turned astray."

"My apologies," Ffamran said, smoothly, "if you'll give me further instruction now you have the map, I'll see that I steer you better."

The darkness proved all the more cloying the next time they ventured; the very air grew hotter, thicker, as though they approached the bowels of the earth. "I can't bear the silence," Margrace said, sudden, "it weighs the darkness all the more, the cave closing in. Sickening, this."

"Oh?" Ffamran's words came without that sharpness Basch expected. "Pretend you're a-bed instead, Margrace. Shall I sing you a lullaby for comfort's sake?"

Ffamran sang much better without intoxication to impare his perception of his own true tone; the cave's light echo did not deduct from the clear tenor. It was not until they sighted, ahead, that strange sharp edge that distinguished the fall of light from the all-encompassing dark, that Basch realized he was humming the tune. He knew this song; a lullaby for sure. A Landisi one though, not an Archadian one whatever the words Ffamran put to the melody. The sudden realization struck Basch, that Ffamran's own mother had never had the chance to so sing to her son, instead leaving Noah that strange task.

"I should be patronized," Margrace said, wry, across the thread of that harmony; "yet I cannot find it in me to take offence at the sound of that, especially sighting that promise of the sky again."

They gained Sochen proper wrapped in the shivered edges of that song and the sharding firmness of light, again, deflected from above that it could scarcely lighten the shadows but so blinding after that nothingness, so much surfeit sensation.

"Ready your technick and your gun, my lord," Basch said, "the beasts in here are not those foul undead of the caves below."

And then, then, everything spanned too quickly; Ffamran's sharp, true shot, Margrace or Basch to strike the blow that ended that staggering beast; the occasional complexity of excess attack. Ffamran's curiosity went unanswered as they rose up the lift – "Myst, or mechanics? Where's the dratted Moogle when we need him?"

Old Archades, once they gained that height, seemed unchanged from Basch's memory; then he realized his nostrils had grown too accustomed to the scent of his own sweat, his own shed blood, for the very air hung with that mixed miasma of men and mayhem. The occasional heavy thread of smoke creeping through the alley was near a relief.

Arrowfire screamed from the sky, somewhere; Fran heard with scarce enough time to direct them, stumbling, back into the shelter of the alley with a curt cry.

"Inside," Margrace said, "a house, somewhere; we need to avoid all notice. Do you know anyone down here?"

Their eyes turned to Ffamran. That sole Archadian shook his head. "Whores and dealers, Margrace. Will you shame me to seek them now?"

"Yes," Margrace said, and grinned. "Avail yourself of some relief, Ffamran, for the hard way up is a hard way indeed. Ah, gods, for all there's no sky down here at least we have some horizon."

"The hard way?" Ffamran shook his head. "I must profess to know no one here, or what favours asked later of me, should Larsa be deceased – no. Yet everyone knows me. My face, even. If you think this is the only way."

"No, _Ffamran_ —"

Ffamran evaded Basch with too much ease, stepping out into that dangerous street, his arms raised. He did not speak, but angled his face to upwards to where that volley of arrows had come.

One stray shaft shattered on the stone, and only that.

"Our prodigal Bunansa," called a voice, a drawl, that lax langorous tone that on the instant set the skin of Basch's nape prickling. Over the papapet a bow appeared firstly, several, then enough to line the entire skyline; only then did a man dare to poke his head over. He propped that on his crossed arms, a pose of relaxation whatever the weaponry that flanked him. "Wherever have you been, Ffamran? Such a party we've had in your absence. At least you're dressed for the occasion; terribly fetching, that fit. A man suspects you robbed a Viera for her spare wardrobe – and lo, observe if you have the eyes to do so; in your wake trails such a creature!"

"I need Zargabaath, Jules. Get me to him, or he to me."

"Not your usual tastes, my lord, not usual indeed, and a man knows the difficulty in difference; the expense. I do see that you have your erstwhile hound on your back, a-lingering or malingering; have you outgrown him so, then, that you need an oil-slick Rozzarian atop that which Zargabaath offers?"

"Your games disinterest me to the extent I lament the breath I waste to tell you so."

"Such brave words for a blind man," Jules said, smilingly. "Shall I tell you to the count how many arrowheads target your heart?"

Ffamran raised his gun and pointed it, well away from the source of the voice that a stir of laughter came from the rooftops. Basch could not help but move forward to his side, then to his fore. His presence would avail nothing if the arrows fell, the weight of his mail; nothing. Ffamran's question came too nonchalant for the extent of that threat.

"Did you fight for me or for Larsa?"

"For—" Jules laughed. "What do we care in Old Archades who sits on what chair? For shame, my lord, for shame; we fight to keep Old Archades free of the chaos above."

"Yet we came from below," Basch growled, "not above."

"Your preference for inversion is duly noted, Magister Gabranth."

"Enough," Ffamran said. "This farce appeases no one."

"'Enough'," Jules mocked, "or what, my lord: will you shoot some poor errant architecture?"

"Do not fire," Basch said, a comment undirected, "or we'll all die."

Ffamran hesitated visibly before he lowered the gun. His leather creaked as he took a single step forward, to set his heat against Basch's back. "If you wish for peace, get us to Zargabaath, to Larsa if he lives."

"Peace," Jules said, "and a piece, of course."

"A piece of what?"

"Oh," Jules said, "your monopoly, perhaps."

Basch felt Ffamran stiffen. The sharp exhalation came tinged with rage. He had not suspected Ffamran was quite so possessive of his father's endeavour, for Basch had never seen the man involved in what directorial role he played. Ffamran's voice held true for all that fury Basch could veritably feel, radiant.

"Such things are not to be discussed in the open, but rather in private, with Zargabaath present, preferably."

"An impartial party, if one imperial." Jules' grin was expansive. "A man knows true impartiality is worth any number of chops, ships or shares."

At some unseen signal the bows were lowered and Jules's head disappeared; Margrace and Fran stepped out of the alley, ill at ease, as the streets instead filled with men and women grimed and grim, full armoured that their surrounds looked like a prison escort than any kind of guard.

"See? That was not so hard," Margrace said, appeasingly—

Ffamran choked, tried to speak, and choked again. "Gods," he managed, at last, "he could ask for anything! All of Rabanstre relocated for the sake of the weather, even!"

Margrace blinked. "…you could afford to shift a city?"

"Ah, well," Fran said. "We did not know that. Well, then."

"No ideas," Basch warned, "I know the pair of you, mind."

"So suspicious," Fran said, with a faint smile. "Surely you trust that we have Ffamran's best interests at heart in such a tryst, no?"

Ffamran walked ahead of them, his stride lengthened, careless with a stiff anger whatever his uncertainty on this terrain. Basch took Ffamran's arm to steer the man up a flight of uneven steps. The proximity permitted Basch to lean close, to say, low that their escort did not hear: "Just because he asks does not mean you have to give."

Ffamran considered that, and smiled as he slid his borrowed gun with crisp familiarity back into its holster.

.

  



	15. Chapter 15

In the months after Ffamran's maiming, distant relatives and once-friends had offered a trite plentitude of consolations that wounded near as much as his father's counterpoint silence.

That he would never have to see himself age, said by a fourth cousin with in a quavering voice from the grave; a bitter reminder that Ffamran would never see himself as anything but that disproportionate lad with a charming grin. Yet Basch – Basch called him _comely_ , as though he had no concept of what the word could mean. And he was tall, Basch told him, taller than Noah. Taller than his own father, then, taller than Aarron or Ellory had been.

That he would never be prey to that fickleness of other men, to judge a woman by her appearance, said by a spinster relation of his long dead mother as she suggestively stroked his hand, a woman that Ffamran vaguely remembered as weighing substantially more than he and his two brothers put together. What could his response be to that but to treat every approach by a woman as something to be henceforth distrusted; he would not be made a fool of by some hunchbacked harridan hungering for a husband. Whatever handling he had indulged or impelled on his travels with the astrologers, Ffamran considered that more shared warmth and youthful lust than any true need; he had bedded _with_ youths but never taken a true lover. The blankness that swallowed him after his blinding did indeed set him to seek that destructive hunger, a familiarity of flesh like his own without any danger of entrapment – and what could he care if it was male ugliness instead of female inflicting itself on his slack willingness? Men he did not know, could not know; those who had never seen him before his sightlessness to know his loss. Ffamran found strange comfort in that exchange, that he was still of worth, a quantifiable amount with those men. The strain taken in such activity served to reinforce that he was worth only as much as he was willing to pay.

Noah had been the first to offer true solace after the loss of his sight. Noah; a face that Ffamran had never thought to think attractive but he that knew Noah. The man had offered conversation that neither avoided nor targeted his blindness, it was merely a fact, like the nose on his face or the color of his hair. Ffamran recalled falling asleep in the man's arms more than anything else now. Larsa and Zargabaath between them had succeeded in tainting everything other.

Here, now, flanked by those Old Archadians who had once threatened and even now fought small skirmishes to protect his leather-clad flesh, another virtue of his blindness reared its head, for Basch said in pained voice,"Oh, Ffamran, be thankful you cannot see what has become of Archades in our absence."

Ffamran could find nothing in his heart for the words but a cold, inexplicable anger that chilled that remnant sweat on his skin, the lingering kiss of his efforts, his _weapon_ , against Sochen's labyrinthine dark. He had very nearly enjoyed himself down there.

"Tell me," Ffamran said. They were in Tsenoble, he could tell from the temperature and from the count of manual lifts Jules' cohort had traversed. The scent of the scorched aromatic trees that lined the main boulevards of that district was just extra assurance of that familiarity. He should not have tripped so often, but his recollection no longer matched the way that lay before him, for the paving was, distinctly, rendered uneven.

"He will not," Jules said, in Basch's stead; the man's singsong tone seemed a pointless affectation now, an irritation. It had once been that which sold Ffamran on the man's connections, that he was so distinct against a world of blank sound and monotone voices. "How will Judge Magister Gabranth recite you this sorrowful tale? Each tumbled tower is his own toppled thought; each gaping chasm his own shattered heart; oh, that Larsa's dead body is his own murdered child; but there is still hope for the Magister's mightiness, for at his side walks his willowy wife—"

"You will shut your mouth," Basch said, "or I will take your tongue."

"And as Lord Ffamran sees so deeply without sight," Jules said, blithe to meet that berserker's snarl, "you may rest assured, Magister, that tongueless I will never be silent on all matters that should remain unspoken. Remember whose men are as of this moment keeping the chaotic mass of mad upper Archadians away from ravaging your precious lordling."

"It is much damaged, the city," Fran said, "but calm your anxiety for young Archades, Ffamran; I do not scent excesses of blood. There are some dead, yes, but the city has not been wrought into that of a full battlefield."

"Such scarcely assuages my guilt—"

" _Your_ guilt,"' Basch said. "You can't see what lies before us, all evidence of my lack. The city's infrastructure is half destroyed."

"Tis only Larsa's half, surely," Margrace said, that Basch growled. It sounded more a whimper.

Such unusual things that people told Ffamran to find joyous in his new blank world; he would never have to study, but he had so enjoyed reading; he would never be sent away to war, but he had found worth in the efforts that mastery of a weapon demanded; he would never die a wasteful death, as Aarron had for love of his lord, as Ellory had for love of a word. Never, never, never; as though everything of worth was defined by absence rather than presence. Ah, well, Basch walked at his side now, a veritable heat of a presence, and Ffamran ached for the worth there, and the impossible absence a mere arm's length could hold.

That his brothers had not survived to see such a horror, shouted in distraction by the housekeeper who discovered Ffamran's first violent venture into paid flesh. For that, Ffamran could conceive of no light witted response as he had for the others. Everything had been so raw then, his blindness stinging more then than the other; he could only conceive that shouted hatred had been aired for that which drove him to such desperate lengths rather than the lengths themselves. He knew that for untrue now. No one hated him for that blinding incompetence howsoever he despised it

A thousand nevers reproached him after that: never to love, never to live, never to fly, never to see his firstborn child, never to fight, to flee, to be free; oh, he tried, so very hard, to see value in those absences. If his life must be defined by negative space, well, then, he would define it entirely by such a thing; the absence of love in the midst of hard lovemaking, the absence of care in the face of a world that wanted his voice. Noah had put an end to that, that his post-humous betrayal still stung now; Ffamran could not allow Basch the same opportunity to wound.

Absence and avoidance; the lot of a blind man's life. Ffamran's sight could no longer call an untruth by the shift of a man's eyes; here, now, he knew only Basch's heat at his side, and could never assume the man's reasons for walking there. He could not rely on Basch for anything but his devotion, and that the target of such a thing could never be someone as fickle as Ffamran.

The sudden echo and sharp stink of smoke sparked Ffamran's sudden awareness; they were in a building, somewhere that itched with familiarity—

"What have they done to the palace?" Margrace asked. "Whose side did this destruction?"

"What side?" Jules replied. "A man will know that anarchy amounts only no absolutism; there is no palace that can hold a beast constructed of chaos."

Ffamran asked, though he knew the answer already lest they would not be present. "Zargabaath still keeps company here?"

"That other Judge Magister holds the upper levels in a firm fisted grasp, with men loyal only to the idea of loyalty." Jules' laugh was as crawling as the man himself. "The word of Larsa's death stopped the last full assault on those doors, that we can now walk without hindrance. You would be interested to know: it was the word of your death, my Lord Ffamran, that provoked the initial assault on the palace."

Basch inhaled, sharply, that Ffamran expected the man to speak. The words remained, as with all others Basch kept pent, unsaid.

Gaining that inner circuit of the palace required only the revelation of his face to that cohort of guards that held the entrance, accompanied by Jules' word. Ffamran said nothing, but felt their near-taunting proximity, face to his face, breath on his skin, the curt agreement that came delayed as though only that rude invasion of his space could have assured his person. They left him his gun, though some startling vicious curse fell from Basch's lips for the loss of his Durandal, that Margrace sought to quip and Fran stirred with an uneasy air Ffamran could scent. As for Jules, Ffamran was sure he would be possessed of numerous secreted weapons regardless of what Zargabaath's guards claimed from him.

They were hastened through halls teeming with insolence, arrogance, that Ffamran wondered if he had ever truly known revulsion before this moment. The pair that led them did nothing to stop the press of men, the curses that Basch could not stop, the spit – the spit! – of insult directed solely and with such harsh vindictiveness directly at Ffamran, at his name, such spitting violence at his inversion kept so silent before Larsa's damned revelation that now, his step faltered when he could not afford to fall.

"I will not permit this," Ffamran said, and stopped. "I am not here to be reviled. I never wanted – I was never – I am here to negotiate."

"The city," Basch said, with that quiet Ffamran could not help but recognize as his familiar, slow-turning pain, a calm that time had taught Ffamran covered only an unacknowledged anger. "They cannot but hate the figurehead that gave such license to this destruction. Listen not to their words. They would hate you even if you were wed or a woman."

Such a wavering finger of blame that Basch's unaired rage directed: those words that did not sound on Basch's lips the way the man no doubt wanted. What did he think to offer with such a statement – comfort? Solidarity? A hundred words lived under those scant few spoken, and every one of them was one of blame. Ffamran did miss his next step, a sudden weakness that made him feel as those every faceless spitting scorn was one he should embrace with totality. If he went to his knees now after walking with such confidence through Sochen, he did not think Basch would help him rise. A matter of pride, then – that was all Ffamran had to steel his spine. He straightened, unaided.

"Zargabaath," Ffamran said; he wiped his face dry. "Where is he?"

"Here," came the voice against that rustle of revulsion, such a familiar gravel that Ffamran smiled to hear it. "I will not ask the derivation of your leather, Ffamran; I sincerely hope someone told you what you looked like in that before you acquiesced to dress so under an Archadian roof, otherwise you've been made obvious mock of."

"Such an appropriate time to talk of fashion, Zargabaath. But then, considering your men serenaded my procession with pillow talk, I can hardly lament the topic of fashion as a devolution of repartee. What shall we talk of next, while our butchered city simmers to tenderness – the weather? The complexity of your old man's digestive system?"

"Stand down, men; let them through. We will, I am afraid to say, have to blindfold you all."

"And I?" Ffamran said, mocking—

"Don't play the fool, Ffamran; it was never a role that suited you whatever your costume."

Zargabaath led them through a further maze, such a convolution of turns that Ffamran suspected the deliberateness was a ploy to confuse his native orientation. "So Larsa is alive, then?"

Zargabaath could not hide the hiccup of breath, the sharp snort after he realized he had given himself away. "Did you think I would fail so swiftly in my duty, Ffamran?"

"Indeed, I banked on you having our darling Solidor tucked away in bed somewhere, still dreaming his innocent dreams of glory. As you know, Zargabaath; I do not bank but on a sure thing."

"Gods," Basch said, tremulous, "Zargabaath, Larsa's alive? I had – I had hoped so—"

"Larsa has told me," Zargabaath said, a voice of steel to match his tread on tile, "in most distraught voice for the smoke-stained haze of his city's skies, exactly the ploy that he indulged, that you abused in order to seduce Ffamran out of the city. The presence of this piratical pair in your wake tells me all I need as to ascertain the truth. I say, Gabranth: I hope you netted somewhat of worth out of this debacle, for the price of this folly is more than the most daring of prostitutes would charge."

"Half a city?" Ffamran said. "Considering I paid the price, not Basch, I will assure you these two nights were well worth it."

"Ffamran, please—" Basch said, half-growl, half-pained, but Zargabaath did not indulge that mood.

"How holds Old Archades, Jules?"

"Well enough, milord," came that sudden military snap, "the perimeter holds; Sochen is closed; we would not have broached the upper without Ffamran's presence to require a re-evaluation of orders."

"Well done, man; find your ease and maintain your silence with the rest of the troops. Within, with Larsa, we may be some time."

"Magister."

They had stopped; Jules' leather-booted step squeaked off into the distance. In the relative silence but for baited breath, Ffamran near felt his jaw to ensure it had not fallen open. Yet – he had – _Jules_ had –

"Zargabaath, you must be the most envied of all procurers," Ffamran declaimed. "Have you whored all Archades for my whim?"

"Had you not hungered for all Archades I would not have had to," Zargabaath said, easily. "You have spent your reckless years coddled in a comfort you have scarce been aware of, my Lord Ffamran. Had you attempted as you have in any other city, as any other man but Ffamran Mid Bunansa, you would have been robbed blinder than your blindness would indicate if not murdered for your gil and your self-harming penchant. You have learned no wary fear of rape or murder in Archades, no fear of any of the evils a man may commit. Archades could not have tolerated such a risk to the flesh of Cid's only remaining son; your helplessness could not be permitted to compromise your father's wealth or delicate state of mind, not after both your brothers' defections. I will not apologise for ordering such a watch kept over you."

It was only Basch's hand on his elbow that let Ffamran know he had articulated that pained dizziness externally, not merely an internal reel. He shook away from that grasp. There was no freedom in such a touch; far better to fall, and rise alone.

"I hope you charged your whores a generous percentage," Ffamran said, his tone stiff to his own ears. "I tipped well."

"You will tell me what you intend to do or say with Larsa before I will open this door," Zargabaath said. "You must know after this I will not permit you to sit an election as a candidate."

"Ah, a crux," Ffamran said, "for I will not apologise either, Zargabaath, whatever that your tone tells me you expect such a thing. We stand here, both vicariously unapologetic. I am well aware of my own role in causing this current dilemma; my intentions are merely to resolve the conflict that divides the streets of Archades between the contradictory offerings of a blind helpless man and cruelly idealistic child." Ffamran felt his lip curl as he spoke. "Neither you nor Larsa seem to have found a way that does not involve the allocation of brutal force or overwhelming numbers."

"I cannot silence that voice within that shrieks warning, Ffamran; your family has never had love for the Solidors. You still wear a gun. I do not doubt that should you will it, you have the wit and the skill to use it devastatingly."

"You would be the first to think that," Ffamran acknowledged. "Even Basch expounded most liberally to keep this weapon from my hands. I suspect your men left it equipped as an insult, or perhaps they could not contemplate the thought of touching my flesh. Mayhap you need to strengthen your orders, or lower your percentage."

"I will not wrestle it from you," Zargabaath said, "undignified as such a thing would be. I ask, instead."

Ffamran handed the gun over, and could not stop the pang of loss at losing its weight. For a time, such a short time, he had felt almost capable again. Stripped of sky, of surety; stripped of companionship and given guardianship instead; the loss of the borrowed weapon should not have felt so stark. Without it, he would not be able to use that glorious technick, that approximation of sight again, blissful and bullet-born though it was.

Basch spoke into that silence, for Ffamran swallowed against the tightness of his throat. "To Larsa, then."

"To Larsa." Zargabaath' agreement was accompanied by the gentle click of a door unlocking.

The greetings therein bounded between Margrace and Fran and a strained-sounding Larsa, taut with weariness. Old, Ffamran realized; old far before his age, but Vayne had never treated his youngest brother with the joy a boy deserved. Aarron and Ellory had quizzed Ffamran on politics, assuredly; demanded that he know near as much as they on any topic, they had even indulged his word-perfect recitation of their own arguments back to them with commentary as to the lack of logic within. The difference, though, was that those beloved elder brothers had often conducted such debate whilst dragging a prone and argumentative Ffamran about the house's floorboards on a blanket for his refusal to get out of bed; either that, or it had been conducted in the wake of the shrieking that followed arrival of a full bucket of ice at his feet. Ffamran could not imagine that Vayne would have ever had the thought to do such a thing, nor the value a boy could find in that evident love.

"Larsa, come here."

"I haven't greeted Basch yet," Larsa said, suddenly harsh. "You can wait, Ffamran."

"Ah, no courtier's talk today, Larsa?" Ffamran felt his way about the room, weaving—a hand on his wrist, claws, _Fran_ – with her aid he found a chair and sat. He could not determine if his weariness was just unaccustomed exertion or the lingering effects of his days of debauchment. "Basch can wait, he will still be here tomorrow. The same cannot be said for the remainder of your city."

"My city?" Larsa snapped.

"Just come here."

The carpet muffled Larsa's tread so well it was only his breath that alerted Ffamran to the obedient proximity. He reached, careful, to find a thin-boned wrist, to feel up an arm that was entirely too muscled for a boy, wiry with the hours of rapier-work, trembling with the tiredness of a man's life. He found a shoulder – the hint of broadness, of thick bone, oh, Larsa would outstrip Vayne's bulk, assuredly – and the wave of hair long-grown in imitation of that deceased older brother.

"What are you doing?" Larsa asked, near frantic. "You're touching my face."

"I am well aware of that," Ffamran said, "but we are not before a court that the appropriateness of such a touch should concern you." Ffamran repented when he felt Larsa's shiver, that unease; for a moment, Ffamran did hate the hunger that so defined him, that he could not touch another man without that instant assumption of abuse. "I have not seen you since you were scarcely four years of age," he explained, "and now you are nearly old enough to marry. Tell me what you look like, for touch cannot fill the absence of my knowledge.

"I look, much as Vayne did." Larsa's shiver abated with the sudden squaring of his shoulders, a deep breath for surety. "And yet, unlike Vayne. Zargabaath tells me I did look as my father did in his youth, but that likeness I cannot judge. I knew the man only in the lack of his latter years, a full-bearded face almost featureless; we were much distant. I see no resemblance between us, unlike you and your own father. You look so much like Cidolphus it is as though an uncanny ghost from my brother's past haunts me."

Ffamran let his hands drop. "Basch never told me that." He felt his lips quirk, even as his eyes stung. "Did you find my father so comely, then, Basch?"

"I but saw the man once –"

"Twice," Margrace said, as though the silence had at last frayed his control—

"Twice," Basch protested, "twice! In battle both times. I do not enter a battlefield with intent to determine another's level of attractiveness, nor have I accustomed myself to looking to men for such a thing."

"Perhaps why you find such difficulty in admitting that attractiveness when you do find it," Margrace mused.

"The world is a battlefield to Basch fon Ronsenburg," Fran agreed. "And all men in opposition but equal to a beast."

"Why do you cry, Ffamran?"

It had to be Larsa who asked, Ffamran thought, grimly amused, when everyone else obviously sought to speak of anything but. A child's directness veiled with a man's politeness; it was not a Solidor's curse, this, but that of the youngest child in a family full of older men, to always play the role of an adult lest he be overlooked.

"I—I am scarce aware of it." Ffamran touched his wrist to his cheeks, to find that spill of wet there, stinging more on his skin that his eyes. "Tiredness, perhaps. Dry eyes."

"No," Larsa said, contemplating, "no tiredness. I know what tears look like, I have wept enough of them. Why do you cry?"

"Words," Ffamran whispered, and detested the hoarse thickness of his voice. It was all he could control, all he could use to determine his level of control; his voice, mellifluous, not this weakness. "Such a muddle of words, Larsa, back and forth between us, but does any of it amount to betrayal?"

"What betrayal do you speak of? Basch's, that my word ordered such?"

"No," Ffamran said, "Basch has not a pebble's worth of betrayal in him. He only did what his duty demanded of him. I speak of my betrayal, against this, my city. It has cared for me in my weakness, even if Zargabaath had to wield the whip to make it do so, and for that care I detested its every cobblestone. This – this is my one chance to do something right for my motherland."

"We cannot begrudge you your actions, my lord," Larsa said, almost shamefully, though he did not apologise for his own. Well enough: an Emperor could not afford to apologise for anything.

"I have never wanted my father's title as inheritance," Ffamran said, "nor his lands, though do not begrudge me the right to assume command over his business. It is my right to claim that mercantile aspect, for a first son is a father's successor, a second his love, and the third son a father's freedom, to choose what path he wishes to walk. I have ever enjoyed my efforts at the helm of that ship, for all I can pilot none of the products produced therein."

"What a wandering path your thoughts walk today," Zargabaath said. "I must ask your pirate captors; did Ffamran take one too many head-blows in your company?"

"Or give them," Margrace said, "but you must ask Basch—"

"Be silent, Margrace," Ffamran said, "and you also, Magister. I am saving your nation, Zargabaath, and walking a path of words is better than one of weapons. Tell me, if you must interrupt: how stands the might in Archades' streets?"

"In your name," Zargabaath said, reluctantly. "Where the rumour of Larsa's death originated I know not, but I have not denied it. In the face of that, your 'death' was ever a matter only of your catalytic disappearance, the spark to the fire rather than assurance of death. More defect to your name; the senate cannot convene for the threat on the streets."

"Everything is hottest about the senatorial chambers, I presume." Ffamran touched his fingers to his cheeks, for assurance; at least that slow leaking had stopped. "Well, then, my name it is. I hope it suits you, Larsa, and that all myth of a Bunansa curse is indeed but a myth."

"Portent," Fran said, "the air smells of it."

"Like smoke to me," Margrace said, "or the slight redolence of sweat and blood."

"My lord, your thoughts, we cannot follow." Basch spoke with such a pained, hopeful hesitance, the undercurrent of that ever-present anger stifled; he believed, Ffamran realized, or wanted to believe that Ffamran could do something about this. He rose. Before him, Larsa's head scarce reached beyond the level of his elbow. Strange to think Ffamran had ever been so short, once.

"You know," Ffamran swallowed, "as all Archades knows thanks to Larsa's slipping tongue, I am unlikely to have issue."

Zargabaath snorted. "You do not apply yourself to such, but I doubt you are incapable."

"Nevertheless," Ffamran said, "it is unlikely, and presents us with a solution most households would be loathe to adopt for the potential problem of an eventual true-born son. Well, there will be no true-born sons, so I see only the solution, and no problem."

Strangely, it was Margrace that understood before all the schemers in the room, perhaps because of his own scheming Rozzarian noble-born blood; the pirate laughed fit to burst.

"It is not that strange a thing to consider," Ffamran protested, into the face of that glorious laughter. "Had I been born female, or Larsa so gifted with that dubiousness, the obvious settlement here would have been a merger – a marriage – for then to what purpose is a military discussion of sides and thrones?"

"Ffamran," Zargabaath said, suddenly fond, "the day you left the Akademy; I would have you know I still rue it."

Larsa made a sound of errant distress, disproportionately high. "I—what—you— _Ffamran_ —you can't marry me!"

"Lord Bunansa is proposing instead to adopt you," Basch said, unsteadily. "Though he will not ask directly. Ffamran's way is never to ask directly; nothing is direct in Archades where it can instead be devious."

"We are both orphans, Larsa; this is not as unusual a thing to contemplate as it may seem. Had the numbers in the streets been more in your favour, I would have been likewise willing to be so adopted by you, whatever our ages, however the suffix of Solidor would have had my brothers turn in their graves. It is just a name; it cannot mean much beyond that of stability for Archades. And, unless I misjudge this Archadian air with blithe arrogance, this will give us a path to end the conflict on the streets as well as within the senate."

"Are you assured?" Larsa said; the quaver in his voice was worse now, far worse, than when Ffamran had taken the youth's measure with the pass of his palm.

"Mostly assured," Ffamran said. "You will be my heir, to my father's flourishing fortune that the bastardry of what's left of my family could not possibly cause unrest with their demands. You get my name, that the Solidors will at last lie at rest, truly headless. Our alliance settles this debate; you will get the throne with my vote and my name behind you."

"And you," Larsa said, "what do you get in return?"

Ffamran considered. He tried to speak, and could not. The words did not exist; he suspected the answer was nothing, but to state it so would be suspect in this company.

"You will not be able to stay, Ffamran," Zargabaath said. "Not in Archades, nor in proximity, or you will risk murder, attack, kidnap yet again. You will have allied yourself to further power, yet, as before, will use none of it to assure your own sanctity. I cannot run protective services for you forever."

"You speak of exile," Basch said. "You will send Ffamran into exile."

"I do not meet the idea with disdain, after all the stale occurrences that defined Archades to me," Ffamran said. "A pirate once told me that absence may well be the best way to serve an Empire."

"It will have to be Balfonheim," Zargabaath warned. "An Archadian protectorate, close links, close enough that you may serve attendance at those votes and state occasions that require Ffamran Mid Bunansa to be present. There is a newly vacated position there, a Magister lost in the war, that you would be most suited to fill—"

"Unless that position involves pillows and satin sheets," Ffamran said, "I am entirely uninterested in what ploy of yours I may serve. Balfonheim it will be, very well then, but I shall do what I will there. I will be no lord or spy or servant; I will make my own way."

"As the richest man on the face of Ivalice," Margrace said, dry, "I am sure you will find such a thing most traumatic. And if it must be Balfonheim, well – I assure you it is a city of great beauty and much comfort for a man of your discerning tastes."

"It is a stinking harbour," Fran added, "but lively. We shall direct you to the safer of districts; Balfonheim is our place of residence when we are at rest."

Ffamran opened his mouth to reply, but Larsa's sharp cry intervened.

"Wait!" The youth's voice wavered, to steel on the next sentence. "Do I not get a say in this?"

"Do you object?" Ffamran asked.

"I—just—"

Of everything Ffamran expected Larsa to do, that forceful embrace was not one. His breath exploded at the clamp of wiry arms about his ribcage, the barreling mass of boy near tipping him into the chair still behind him. A face pressed, sidelong, into his chest, bony cheekbone, hard chin, the tickle of hair through laced leather.

"I cannot tolerate that you gift me when I should be reprimanded, with _family_ ; it is everything I have ever wanted, everything I did think I would never regain after I set my sword beside Basch's, to end my own brother. You think you can simply leave, after returning me such a gift in the face of my own arrogance?"

"Ffamran's departure will not be immediate," Zargabaath said, and such fondness, such aching fondness was in his voice that Ffamran wondered how Larsa could so overlook that old man's true paternal affection. "Contracts must be drafted, the senate convened, the adoption ratified and the election finalized. Only then will Ffamran have to go."

"It will not be forever," Ffamran said, and after some hesitance, put his hand on Larsa's shoulder. It struck him that he did not know how to embrace a man without it meaning more than a simple touch. "It is somewhat of a gift to me also, Larsa. All I have ever wanted was this; a right to self-determinacy. To this exile I go with more than acceptance."

"I will accompany you," Basch said, heavily. "I cannot – I must – you need me—"

Ffamran put his fingertips on his cheeks again, an unconscious action he did not note until he startled himself, checking, unsure – but no, he was dry.

"You will not," Ffamran said, "I do not need you, and you are needed here. Although I have thought of something I do need, Zargabaath, if you can gift it."

"If I can, I will."

"The prototype; her blueprints; her original mechanics." In the silence, Ffamran touched his eyes, his lids, lightly. "The ship that took my sight. But for the flaw that caused such an overload it would have proved a stunning creature in flight, the first equipped with full transverse shift as well as lateral thrust. Let me have her back from Draklor's lock-down, to render flight-ready; Margrace can fly me to Balfonheim."

"What will you do with it?" Zargabaath asked, humoured. "Start an airship company to rival your own?"

"…however did you guess?"

"I will not talk of the sheer unethical nature of competing with yourself," Zargabaath said, "for it is you, Ffamran, and you do so seem to enjoy spiting yourself."

"I only spite myself when thoroughly deprived of others to do the spiting."

Larsa at last unwound his arms. "Let us adjourn, then, my lord, to resolve this battle with your words. I thought you bound in vengeance for my –" Larsa heaved a sigh, imperceptible but for his closeness still. "For my multiplicity of rude revelations, for which I have yet to apologise."

"He learns manners already," Ffamran said, to the air. "My good influence spreads, so rapidly. If you must know, Larsa, it is as Zargabaath notes, a matter of spite and spiting oneself; after a time, a man realizes that anger against another only thwarts his own desires, for others will continue in their path regardless of his actions. The only solution therein is for the man to find himself another path."

"We cannot change others; only ourselves."

"Indeed," Ffamran lowered his voice to a whisper, "and also, always forgive your enemies, for I find nothing annoys them quite so much."

"You are rather annoying," Larsa whispered back, and Ffamran heard the grin. "Does that make you an enemy?"

"Family are even more annoying than enemies, especially when they are both at once."

It took days, near a fortnight then, for the contracts to be signed and sealed, the military at last united under Zargabaath's directive to clear the rioters, hold the senatorial halls, to summarily summon those house-bound senators to vote. Ffamran realized that Basch had not spoken another word after that one abortive effort to attach himself further. Not a word, not a congratulations, a thank you, a goodbye; nothing. Ffamran could not concern himself with such; he worked nights with the Moogles to get the prototype skyworthy as he trudged days in Larsa's company, a visible symbol of solidarity between families. He was not left with time to feel the lack.

At last, scared senators hustled like chickens into the senate's halls, Ffamran could kneel to offer his fealty and claim his freedom. He wondered if his father had ever had the ambition to put a Bunansa on the throne, if that had been behind what drove Aarron and Ellory into the Solidors' gravitational field. Whatever his deceased sire's desire, there was a Bunansa on the throne now; all Archades seemed at last content that so little blood had been shed for such an occurrence.

Margrace agreed to fly the prototype when the day came to depart, with such alacrity that Ffamran could near feel the eager sweat of the man. Ffamran had thought the sound of the engines would spark some fear, some recollection of suffering in his eyes, but he felt – nothing. No, not quite nothing, for that was a blank heaviness that filled with scant room for anything else. Ffamran felt, instead, empty.

"So," said Margrace, "is this how you run away, then? A way to lift this great family curse of death that I have heard so much of these past few weeks in Archades, by running away that it doesn't catch you?"

"Foolishness," Ffamran replied, "the curse is meaningless, nothingness spun of myth and too much falsehood. I'm leaving because I want to."

"This is how I ran away. From Rozzaria, and too much family, too many curses shouted at my name; this is how I ran, in an airship."

"Yet I am not you, Margrace. Have I not done everything I could, that all that is left for resolution is my absence?"

Margrace considered, the hum of the engines sounding alike to the whirr of his thoughts.

"No," he said, and Ffamran clutched at the arms of his chair as the ship moved, lurched, lifted with the feel of an elevator's shaft that left his stomach behind. "For where is Basch?"

"All that is left for resolution is my absence," Ffamran repeated.

.

  



	16. Chapter 16

For a time Balfonheim's salted air kept away thought of much but the joy of differences between here and _back there_.

The horizon, for one; Ffamran should not have been able to feel the difference, but he did, and he felt it as _direction_. The breeze came with a steady regularity Balfonheimers used as a clock more reliable than the sun, and that, Ffamran could feel, scent, hear, wherever in the city he stood; salted air traveling from that endless ocean-mirrored horizon to disperse over the plains beyond. Ffamran _knew_ Balfonheim for he had passed through the city almost a decade ago, he knew what that endless blue looked like. When the afternoon's breeze came, Ffamran smelled a horizon on that stiff gust of air. He could judge his direction from how that wind blew his hair askew.

"Whatever the Archadian empire considers," Margrace would expound on the grandiosity of that horizon, over hot, day-brewed coffee, "they could never conquer the blue skies of Balfonheim."

Ffamran drank with him, his own coffee turned to syrup for he disdained that particular bitterness. And that, another difference: coffee, Dalmascan-brewed, Rozzarian-brewed, some concocted mix of two or three or more beans and harvests and names, drank in dens heavy with white smoke or sipped out under the sun; Coffee, and curry, and a thousand scents and flavours in existence that had all been stifled, rejected by sedate Archades so desperate to maintain its static stability. For his first weeks in Balfonheim Ffamran refused to stay indoors or eat in Margrace's kitchen; Fran and Margrace took him out for every meal, on occasion to meet Nono in Balfonheim's Moogletown, high class and low according to whim, for Ffamran paid regardless.

Bedding in their household, he could not help but feel out of place. For too long Ffamran had such precise control over his environment that his sudden inability to order anything translated as an itch of frustration. The most notable difference, ignoring that of his conspicuously narrow bunk, was that the doors were swing not sliding; the third time he walked full into the edge of one left carelessly between open and closed, Margrace's muttered apology scarcely hid his laughter. The pirates did not live a life of regularity: Ffamran could not find anything where he had left it in the same place the next morning, and Margrace's protestation that perhaps Ffamran had merely forgotten where he had placed the object in question – Ffamran disdained to reply. Ffamran did not forget where he abandoned anything, of importance or otherwise.

Fran's transient bent came starkly clear here, for one day Ffamran awoke to find her gone and could only feel awkward come that evening, for Margrace was still alone when they at last sought their beds. Ffamran did not hear a door stir in that house through all the long night.

The following night they sought a much-belated dinner after waiting overlong for Fran. "Tis nothing of concern," Margrace said. Ffamran could not quite hear the lie in those blithe words. "Tis the Viera way, to wander the expanse of the world if they cannot know the limits of their Wood. Fran tells me it is that she searches for a word, that she knows it when she hears it, and for a time she settles. Some: a night. Others, such as I: years."

"She explained such a thing to you? It seems somewhat callow, that bluntness."

"Love can have no measured nor mapped path," Margrace said. His hand gave brief guidance, a featherlight touch on Ffamran's elbow to steer him down another of Balfonheim's numerous and irritatingly random steps. "What may seem right for some is only wrongness for others. The only way to determine such is through speech, through explanation. Fran returns to me, always, always; I must trust that she will always find her word in me, not another's voice. She does so like to wander," and Margrace laughed, still tense, but a true laugh, "so I promise her: 'you will never see the end of the road if you come traveling with me'."

"Why have we stopped, then?"

"Of course, you can't see. We're here."

Ffamran inhaled, and found the air heavy with that remembered fog of smoke, also coffee, some simmered steak and that ever-present salt; he held his cane close to his leg. "I would prefer to avoid the smoke, Margrace. I thought we were hunting for food."

"The smoke is an optional extra," said the pirate, "not a necessity in this place, and the room for such is kept well away from the ones we will use. Firstly, we will seek food to sate our hunger, for this place is much reputed for the quality of its marinade. What sweetness we seek for dessert I shall leave to your word."

There was something in the latter that had Ffamran hesitate, his stomach suddenly tighten. "This is a whorehouse. You've brought me to a whorehouse."

"There is no such thing by that cruel name in Balfonheim." Margrace's hand touched Ffamran's elbow, warm. "This is a house of comfort; every comfort can be found within, room by room. Within, there are those that manage such places, the proprietors and their guards to ensure no forced occurrence or manipulation happens, the drink and drug sellers, but every man you find within is here of his own will. No moneys will be exchanged for any service, only for the goods the household provides. And breakages, if there are any."

That proved the greatest, startling difference between Balfonheim and Archades, that almost casual discovery of a house so openly named and openly run on the street. Archades would never, could never have acknowledged such a thing, even allowed it in silence; every Archadian's life was a weapon to be held against him, every Archadian's wants a way to break his will. Ffamran struggled for the words to explain that sudden tight emotion, for everything he could think to say of that revelation of acknowledged, indulged, willing freedom seemed too trite.

"Balfonheim is a much liberated place."

"You say it thus, with mocking? Consider, Ffamran: Balfonheim was founded by the whores and beggars of Archades, by the thieves and inverts, all men and women cast out of Archades' heights for crimes, petty crimes. But what crime therein – it was all a matter of propriety, of ownership and debates of such, of laws delineated to mark the bounds of morality, a map made by men who could not conceive of the broad extent a Hume's mind – no, that a _thinking_ mind can travel. There were no murderers sent here, no cruel killers; only those that could not stand within those constructed lines, more false than those that mark territories on a map. Well then, is it any surprise that Balfonheim makes much of its liberation, and bears that banner proudly?"

"I did not intend to mock," Ffamran said. "It seems Archades has left all my words laced with hurt. Here – only men, you said."

"It did seem your bent. If you should wish a mixed house, I can take you to another." Margrace stepped close enough Ffamran could smell that Rozzarian's spice over the salted fish of the harbour. The press of a hand against Ffamran's shoulder this time had him startle. Not featherlight, this time: Margrace tightened his touch. "I have watched your growing irritation within the small comfort of my house, and the even smaller company of our social circle. Here you can find some relief; I will introduce you to others within Balfonheim's circles that you will not be alone when Fran returns, for when she does, I must leave to fly her where her will takes her."

His hunger had been so evident Margrace could read it; Ffamran did not find that surprising, though somewhat shaming. His abstinence ached, an itch too sensitive to scratch with his own fingertips. Since Noah's disappearance, that time between Vayne's call to his duty and Basch's impromptu replacement into that role, Ffamran had not held himself so restrained for such a time. It was the scent of the smoke coming from the house that had his stomach turn, no doubt, not the thought of indulging the other. If he went within, with Margrace as guide or guardian, this would not nor never be the anonymous act it had been within Archades. But that – that, Zargabaath had confirmed, had never been the refuge of anonymity Ffamran had thought it was.

"Do you still do all this for friendship with Basch?" Ffamran asked. "It seems strange you would be so solicitous to a stranger. An enemy, even, Rozzarian."

"I surrendered my right to call myself Rozzarian when I fled my family," Margrace said. "Basch is a good judge of a man's heart, the core of a man, not merely that which his actions would indicate. I seek friendship with you for his judgment, but not for his sake."

At that, at last, Ffamran let his cane slide to touch salt-rough stone of the street, and nodded his acquiescence. The hustle inside the – house? – Ffamran felt as hard heat and noise, a wall of sound; it sounded like a tavern in here, bewildering, and Ffamran had never liked such a conglomerate crowd. Margrace shouted to explain the layout of the room; they paid an entrance fee for assurance, and the room beyond was laid out as a conversation pit where others would drink and observe who entered. Margrace did not linger, steering Ffamran through that press of the crowd to where, he explained, an outdoor table was spread with an abundant feast. Ffamran could not judge his own size moving within such a sound-filled space, the music, a singer's light female voice, the murmur of conversation – it all veiled his methodology of judging his space, by the ebb and flow of air about those around him. When Margrace tried to steer, Ffamran found himself slamming into others, strangers, hitting arms, torsos, with his elbows, that he could only choke on his apologies in irritation.

"Hey – you – watch where—"

"Shush, he's blind, see?"

"He's the blind one? –" and the sudden pique of interest; "—truly? Hey, you, Margrace– to what room do you go?"

"To eat," Margrace shouted back, "and after, who knows?"

Outdoors it was indeed preferable to the inside, the expanse of the sky swallowing most of the noise, the air fresher, brighter, that Ffamran's hunger sparked again at the smell of spiced steak. Margrace pressed into his hand a drink, something sharp and yeasty with a frighteningly alcoholic aftertaste, and left Ffamran to guard a table while he fetched food. 'Guard' the table being an apt description, Ffamran realized, for in Margrace's absence a startling amount of men tried to seat themselves about the table despite his protests, daring retribution to win that glimpse of Ffamran's grin that involuntarily bared itself after every proposition.

"Let a man eat," Margrace hollered on his return, shooing them with his bluster. "I apologise for not warning you in advance the stir your presence would cause."

"Is everyone so damned ugly here that a blind man offers such joy?"

"Frankly," Margrace said, and sounded as though he grinned, "that beneficence on your behalf is merely an optional extra. It is not often this motley lot of mongrels find a purebred Archadian lord joining their frolic."

Ffamran felt for a fork, for Margrace had not steered his hand to one on the table. "How do they know of my rank?"

"Why," Margrace said, "how should they not know you, Lord Bunansa? You arrived to your exile in the company of two of Ivalice's most famed skypirates; you came out of the chaos of an Archadian civil war as the man who calmed a city; you arrived in Balfonheim carrying nothing but the clothes on your back and the intention to buy yourself everything you need; your name is at the dock of an airship the likes of which no one has ever seen; you are also, lest you forget, the _father_ of the Archadian Emperor. And, well, you are blind; quite notable, that." Margrace chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. "Your pallor is also quite exotic in Balfonheim."

At last Ffamran found the implement he sought just as he considered eating with his fingers for he would not _ask_ ; he constrained his temper against Margrace's insouciant watch of that fumbling. The man no doubt found it as amusing as watching him walk into doors left ajar. Small wonder Fran left the man in search of somewhat more gentility. "I shall do my best to amend that latter on the morrow."

It took four drinks, two hours of conversation, and five introductions before Ffamran allowed himself led away by that fifth stranger Margrace introduced, a man with the exuberant voice of a singer to cut across the din. They went, for Ffamran's half-hearted request for privacy, to a room scarcely large enough to hold them, the three –

"Margrace," Ffamran whispered, when the singer whose name he had lamentably forgotten excused himself to relieve his bladder. "I can only but express my appreciation for your care and direction thus far but by the gods, man, will you get yourself gone? Have you not your own comfort to seek, in Fran's absence?"

"I would be much amiss to leave you now," the pirate replied, "for these places may be ones of comfort but they are still dangerous. A man's face cannot hide his heart. Do not concern yourself, you will not hear me speak; I will not get involved."

The unfortunate thing, Ffamran realized on the morrow, was that the pirate had been much less drunk than he to have witnessed Ffamran's inevitable abandon. He could not feel shame for asking for that, not any more. All of Archades knew his deviancy, what matter if all of Balfonheim knew?

In the wake of that night it proved Margrace struck suddenly tentative, embarrassment showing in the gaps of his speech, the distance he kept when he assisted Ffamran's quest for the rooftop of the pirate's residence in lieu of any form of private yard. Ffamran stripped without aid, to sweat disproportionately much under that hard sun, skin tight across his shoulders after scarce ten minutes prone. The remnant alcohol did not offer him much comfort now.

"You know there is a beach if you wish to expose yourself so," Margrace told him, after some unacknowledged long-winded complaint for the efforts necessary to ascend the roof.

"Too many eyes to affront with my notable pallor," Ffamran said, his words muffled in his forearms. He could smell the stark salt of the ocean distinctly this high, uncontrollable, unknowable. "Too many bruises for all those eyes."

That Margrace could not speak an appropriate response to, that he hemmed and hawed excessively instead, to take himself down the ladder again to fetch drinks and a pillow before he returned with his words sorted. "You are a contradiction, Ffamran. You seem a flighty insect too delicate to catch, to risk marring fragile wings; yet you – are distinctly not a delicate creature, in the slightest."

"I still do not enjoy being caught, for all of that."

"No," Margrace said, "no, I see that now."

"This afternoon," Ffamran said, "I will go and buy a house and set up my staff; you can direct me to an agent."

"Nono will know," Margrace said, "I shall deliver you to his custody when you will it; the Moogle is a malicious menace aboard the _Little Bird_ but he is organized and possessed of multiplicities of contacts, I will give him that. He will also fight to get you your money's worth, the little rodent, if you but give him the chance to fondle your ship. Such a rare bird, that ship; quite startlingly different."

"My father's touch often does that to a thing." Ffamran stirred; he needed to roll over, he was entirely too hot. "If you want to go back down, I'll shout for you when I want your assistance on the ladder."

He rolled when he heard Margrace's receding footsteps, but perhaps too soon, for he was face up and full exposed when he heard Margrace step back from the ladder.

"There is one thing Basch does not like," Margrace said, quite seriously, "as I discovered through a few unfortunate encounters on our travels together: he does not like whores."

"Strange." Ffamran could not consider what provocation had Margrace return to the man's name when the pirate had kept himself so restrained thus far. Ffamran's injuries ached with a sharp, spasmic twist that only subsided as he stretched, as though to ease a cramp. "He seemed to like you."

Margrace ignored that. "Fran and I speculate it is because the man considers himself a whore, in his unspoken heart of hearts. He would suppress his own wants in favour of sating another's."

"I am sure you have some noble intention at heart, but we are not in Archades any longer, pirate; I will not exert myself to decipher your intention. Speak plainly."

"The way in which Basch encountered you was truly the worst scenario to inflict on the man, though through no fault of your own. What horrors had him flee his own country, initially, I know not – but it was Archadian incursion that exposed Basch's weakness there. As though in direct recompense, Basch sold himself to Dalmasca's cause in such totality it was as though he had never had any other allegiance, never admitted any weakness. For Landis he was shamed, and fled; for Dalmasca he fought, and died; for Ashelia he was tortured by Archades that you must have felt his scars, for they are raised and raw even to a man's eyes much less his fingers. Yet, at his brother's word, he sold himself yet again to service that very country that strove so to destroy him. Archades then made a literal whore of Basch, for _your_ sake, but the man would not begrudge _you_ such a thing. He would never lay blame on another when he could take it on his own shoulders."

"As well I know," Ffamran said, to the blind burn of the sky overhead. "I agree with you; Basch has been much broken by Archades. Nevertheless, I think my distance could only benefit the man – there was never anything of truth between us."

"You still fail to understand," Margrace said, impatient. "Fran would explain better; for all the circuitousness of her words you seem to understand her well. If you had asked of Basch what you asked – what I saw – last night; you do not know the depth of wound you antagonize by asking him for that violence."

"He complied well enough."

"I do not doubt he did. He has swallowed all the violence the world has dealt him, and holds it within. He is terrified of his own capacity for anger that I have never seen him rage, not once – but for in your company, Ffamran, in your defence."

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, his brother's mask even, a whore's mask, and he will tell you the truth."

"A platitude," Margrace said, almost angrily; "Basch deserves more than glib Archadian words."

"What do you want me to say?" Ffamran cried, arched against the prickling sting of the sun. "That I would wish to turn back time to meet him without the taint of Archadian manipulation? That I were not blinded, and had met him out in the world with only the wind to will our direction? That I could offer him true companionship instead of this crippled dependence? Basch bends under the demands of duty, self-imposed; I can do nothing for him but complicate matters. I am meaningless in the greater expanse of the world, Margrace; I am nothing, no-one; all I have ever wanted was to be nobody, that I could not be reproached. I am a selfish creature who demands and demands, who takes everything everyone has to give. I, I, I, that is my world, Margrace! I have nothing but what is held within the bounds of my skin. Can I focus on a horizon, to sight a target, to speculate as to a forward future, to see another's needs outside of my skin?"

"Basch does not see what you are," Margrace said. "Basch has ever and always only weighed the merits of a person by their potential – never by their actions. Think you he could have still loved his brother if he looked only at Gabranth's actions instead of his heart? Think you he could have loved you if he saw only your frustration instead of your promise?"

"I despise the dependence his very presence demands of me. I have _nothing_ to offer the man, but to stay distant enough that he can forget me and the inflicted atrocity of his whoredom."

"He will not forget you; my assurance on this, Ffamran. You are most likely the first person he has bedded since his long-past youth, if not the first man."

Of that revelation, Ffamran could think of no trite words to minimize.

"Archades forces all men against their nature," he said, at last. "All the more reason for me to keep my distance from Basch. Gods, gods, surely even Zargabaath could not have considered such a cruel thing?"

"You misread my intention. I had not meant to imply such a thing: I do not think the act so much against Basch's nature but beyond the scope of what he willingly permitted himself. How could he risk attachment to any one thing, a comrade or a captain, when a nation demanded his all?" Margrace made a discomforted sound. "Though I doubt you would ever understand such a thing as how deeply Basch could love his duty, how he needs your loyalty."

"Get you gone," Ffamran said. "You have no right to speak to me of duty, of loyalty when you fled all of yours and struck those bonds, prodigal prince."

"Of course," Margrace said, suddenly snide, "Ffamran Mid Bunansa would never consider running away from unfinished business."

Ffamran bit his lips tight against the words, and closed his eyes at last against the drying blast of the sun.

"Red is decidedly not your colour," Margrace said. "Damned Archadian tourists always insist on at least one sunburn. Think not to ask me for healing; when it's self-inflicted, I cannot contemplate the efforts necessary to resolve such a thing."

"I never asked you for any of this," Ffamran reminded him.

Though Margrace did not call it, the lie of that ached, for his blindness had Ffamran ask, and ask, constantly. Much later, Ffamran wondered at the idiot stubbornness that had him linger on the roof long after Margrace had went back down; he could scarce move for the stiffness of his limbs when he at last shouted for assistance on that ladder. Margrace said nothing, thankfully. Red was indeed not Ffamran's colour, if the wearing of it caused such pains.

That afternoon Nono's great network of cousins and clansmen gave Ffamran an intriguing method of shopping for a house: while Ffamran lay with cold, damp cloths across the strained skin of his nose and cheeks, a multiplicity of musky Moogles sat in his borrowed bedroom to conduct for him tours of words.

"One with an orchard of orange and that orgasmic overflow of citrine scent—"

"Too much maintenance," Ffamran replied. "I dislike excesses of staff."

"On the hill that the horizon's—"

"I am not here for the sightseeing."

"In Balfonheim's beating heart, with one great old apple tree in a small court paved with pebbles; two streets from the harbour, four streets from the greatest variety of food and frolicsome fun –"

"And fornication?"

Nono snuffed. "I have always kept your prodigious passion in prominence when planning. Yet, this I consider of far more import: this townhouse is but a half-hour's easy pace to autonomy of the airdrome."

"An apple tree."

"An abundant one."

"I fell out of an apple tree once," Ffamran mused, "when I was a child. I was up on the highest branch, that it shattered under me and no hasty wrought spell could save me from the call of the earth."

"Cut away the cumbersome thing then if it insults your manhood with the memory," Nono said, dismissive. "The townhouse is wrought with a great gate that maintaining security would be of much ease by few men, if you wish to minimize your employees."

"My wellbeing is ever in your consideration, I note. Alongside my prodigious passion, apparently."

"Moogledom has only the best at heart for Ffamran Mid Bunansa," said Nono.

At that Ffamran half sat up, wincing. Even his elbows hurt with that sunburn; surely such a thing was improbable? "But why?"

"Why?" Nono said, startled. "He asks: why? Why, Ffamran, quite apart from our history, you have been the one Archadian in the history of that hated city to offer Moogledom the rights again to the offspring from of our wisdom's wedding to our cumbersome curiosity."

"The airships," Ffamran said, and fell prone again, wincing. "You only love me for my airships."

"More than that," Nono said. "You give us room for potential performance no other Hume would even think to imagine. Moogles have our flaws, hard though it may be to consider such a thing, but give us the world and Moogles will just wander and wonder without any resolution. I have never considered employment in awful Archades, but my cousins there speak only of measured and mechanical successes for the sharpness of your managerial maintenance; to say nothing of the impetus of your imagination. Now you bring to Balfonheim that most beautiful of beasts I have ever seen, that baby of ours never fully birthed to the skies; you bring to Balfonheim the bounty of your bank balance; of course we seek to cement your comfort. If you stay here, even for but half a decade, we will rival Archades for airship production!"

Ffamran could not feel quite disappointed for the Moogle's frankness: it always returned to his money. "Your integrity is refreshing."

"It is our nature," Nono said. Ffamran flinched when a soft paw patted the back of his hand. "It is not all about your bank, Ffamran. We do like you as well. And if you like, before we depart to demonstrate the depthful delight of your destined dwelling, we can alleviate the angst of that sun's kiss on your poor furless skin."

"Please," Ffamran said, struggling to sit properly that the wet towel fell from his face. "It would be much appreciated."

Nono tsked. "You had only, ever, to ask."

With much clinking of decanters, a most soothing swell of salve was applied by willing paws that Ffamran could rise and dress, cursing for the fickleness that had Margrace shift the position of the chair he had laid his clothes across.

The house of the Moogles' sourcing was one left empty by a casualty of that recent war, a man deceased in Balfonheim's protection. It proved invariably well suited, much larger than he had expected for the size of Margrace's residence. "Bah, _that_ pocket-pinched pirate," Nono said in response to that comment, "will not spend a single gil if he could avoid it, as though every profit from his own earnings instead came from his unforgiving noble heritage. He denies it all."

Ffamran kept his farewells from that pirate's household short, and grateful, that Margrace could not find offence. The man had given him a chance, Ffamran reminded himself, more than that, and in all honesty Ffamran bore him no ill will. If only Margrace could have removed from his mind that romantic concept, that Basch was meant to be, he would have been good company.

The Moogles of Balfonheim also staffed Ffamran's house with a trio of diligent and dedicated designers, who, as with all Moogles, had no aristocrat's concern for their dual domestic role. Ffamran spent his first day in residence sipping some cold white spirit provided by the Moogles, sunbaking somewhat more safely in the part-shade of the backyard; _his_ yard, he reminded himself. After a morning serenaded by mysterious hammering from the inside of the house, the Moogle trio joined him out there, evidently crafting frames for new sliding doors. Ffamran, by now drunk and bored, began with quoting poetry at the creatures, a conversation that rapidly devolved a teleological debate.

"…in ultimate derivation," Ffamran expounded, spilling his drink somewhat as he gestured, "a person has sight, simply, because he has eyes."

"You're a naturalist," the Moogle first, one Tello, said disbelievingly. "You must know that a person has eyes, or orbs, or sensors, _because_ the organism of his existence has the need of eyesight: form follows function, Master Ffamran. He does not have sight because some benevolent deity placed perfect orbs in his otherwise bare sockets."

"Dismiss the prefix," Ffamran said, "it bores me. Function does not follow form, then? Strange that a designer, an engineer such as yourself, would insist such a thing. Surely you know the efforts that must creep into the design of the form –"

"Whichever comes first," said Tello, with the smack of hammer on nail for punctuation, "the dragon or the egg, all I say is that such ambiguous terminology as you were quoting allows creeping error and in any systematic calculated design, that risk of interpretational error must be removed." Tello took a deep breath. "Precision, Ffamran; Moogles ever punt for pinpoint precision. You would not say the stars spin because they look pretty doing so? A flower yearns for the sun thus it grows to the sky?"

"Well," Ffamran replied, "do not the stars spin for the sake of attractive properties? Does not a flower yearn for the glory of the sun's kiss?"

"Kupop," snuffed the Moogle second, "Nono told us you were very nearly an astronomer; they were ever the most poetic plague on the scientific scene. Always striving for the stars they forget the complexity of the mathematics to reach such a thing, eyes so high the very pavement trips them. You could only do worse if you delved those deviant depths of alchemy."

"I still must insist that a thinking creature is more likely to comprehend the _implicit_ knowledge bound in poetic language rather than the cold precision of stripped description."

"Kuu, you are very Archadian," said the Moogle third, mumbling for his lack of speech thus far. "Concealing everything under codes no one else can understand. If you start talking of the tragedy of the Dalmascan drought I must remember to run fetch you a drink."

"If your toilet flushes," Tello said, frustrated enough that he threw down his hammer, "does it flush because it 'wants' to be clean, or because you pull the chain? _Everything_ has cause imposed externally; the action is thus predetermined by their current configuration."

"Does an airship rock because it dislikes the wind?" said the Moogle second. "Does water flow downhill because it likes the earth?"

"Gravity is a form of attraction," Ffamran protested, grinning. "And perhaps a toilet does not flush itself for want to be clean, but it is _my_ want there. Wherever a thinking creature inserts themselves into process, there _must_ be talk of beauty and desire, of wants and needs, for why else are we 'thinking' but that we can wander and wonder both? Would you Moogles turn even love into a mere mechanical process; another spawn of science; an inevitable, undeniable, unchangeable consequence of a man's nature? Have we no choice where we love? Are we as bound to a path there, as is the spin of the stars?"

The Moogle three fell silent for a moment, hammers and commentary both, that Ffamran felt for the bottle beside his chair and poured another drink.

"Astrologer," those three said, disparaging and in unison.

"If you are devout about your desire to dedicate yourself to the design of a new style of airship, you may wish to school yourself in science before you try your hand at mechanics." Tello tapped his hammer for rhythmic reinforcement. "Lest you assume your airships fly on wishes instead of wings."

"But they will," Ffamran replied. "My wishes. The wings I shall leave to you and your kin."

A day of discovery followed after that, a silent, feeling step-by-step mapping of that new residence had Ffamran learn every step, every door frame now stripped of potential to maim or trip him, every cupboard and the cups or crockery within; the kitchen though the Moogles protested he would have no need to use such with their dedication to serve; the bathroom, the basement, the attic. The emptiness of the robes reminded him he needed clothes, that the Moogles brought him a tailor on the morrow. He explored the neighbourhood the day after, to find a place for breakfast, a long circuit for a walk, the way to the beach; that night the Moogles delivered him to where he asked, and collected him from that very door limping and bruised come dawn. He apologized for making them wait, still half-dazed from the lust, a lack of sleep, to suggest they could wait within.

"We will not," Tello replied, "and we will take that as a valid and thoughtful concern on your part and not an insult. The use to which Humes would put Moogles in such a place is not one which suits our nature."

"Oh," Ffamran said, "oh, I had not thought. Oh. Does it offend that I…I will find another escort, if that is your wish."

"If this suits your nature, then there can be no offence." The Moogle first patted his hand. "Our commentary is not reproach, merely refusal. Our right, after all."

A week of lassitude, now he had re-established his comforts, and Ffamran took his cohort to the aerodrome to establish a hangar for construction, to lease appropriate space for Balfonheim's engineers to set up shop.

"The taxes will be exorbitant for the first year," Tello warned, already with paws in every pie that Ffamran marveled at how well Nono had cast his cousin in this role. "Balfonheim has never had that strict a government in comparison to regulated Archadian bureaucracy. You will pay excessive bribes. Within two years, I guarantee you, we will have made that money back."

"Money is not my current concern," Ffamran said. "We need a pilot sworn to silence, that our designs will remain exclusive in test phases. I cannot fly, obviously. Will you?"

"Moogles do not fly," Tello replied. "Perhaps it is, as you said a few days ago, Master Ffamran, protesting our teleological bent. A Moogle cannot be a catalyst or a poet; a Moogle cannot pilot. A Moogle will willingly construct that toilet, we will analyse the swirl of the water within, we will know all aspect of hydraulics and plumbing, every nut and bolt, the relative efficiencies of the sewage system; we know how and why it works but we will not use the device; we will not pull the chain. Moogles are mechanics – we are not a part of the mechanism."

"We will keep an eye out," the Moogle second piped. "Pilots without ships are easy to find within Balfonheim. Hume boys with dreams, and stars in their eyes."

A week into that re-establishment of his business, a letter arrived from Larsa. Tello read it to Ffamran, a polite construction of well-wishes and ironically appropriate filial respect that Ffamran could not help but laugh, delighted. "The Solidor tries," he said, then – "no, not the Solidor. _Larsa_ tries, so very hard; he no doubt makes a much better Emperor than I ever could have. Think you Zargabaath stood over his shoulder and dictated the most respectful forms of address?"

"I don't know," the Moogle first said, blithe, with a rustle of paper as he folded it away. "I never met the man."

"Of course you haven't," Ffamran said, startled. "My apologies, I thought – my world has been so small, for so long, it always seemed as though everyone knew everyone else."

Fran arrived one day, unannounced, Margrace in her wake. The pair disdained the front door, instead climbing illicitly into Ffamran's yard where he lay, trying to eradicate the tan line his latest bedmate had denoted as veritably glowing in the dark.

"Such a life of decadent ease for a lord in exile," Fran said, the first true herald of her presence. "Does nothing concern you further than coloring your buttocks gold?"

Ffamran could not quite still the race of his heart, even after she spoke. He had heard them leap into the yard, the crunch of pebble; his only thought had been of attack, of murder, assassins from Archades or Balfonheim's riotous thieves. Tello's name was on his lips, a cry half-wrought already. He buried his face in his forearms again, that Fran could not read him. "Have you come to apply for the pilot's position? The salary is generous."

"Salary," Margrace said, insulted, " _salary_ , my lord? We are free pirates of Balfonheim; we do not work for _salary_."

"Who would fly _Little Bird_ , if not us?" Fran sank to a crouch, to put her hand, fingers fanned, across Ffamran's shoulder. "You look startlingly well, Ffamran. Are you incapacitated by some hidden injury that you lie there still instead of inviting us inside?"

"Injured – no, yet I would not want to injure Margrace's pride by rising in all my unveiled glory," Ffamran replied, fumbling across sun-warmed stone for his towel.

"Quality, Ffamran, not quantity," said that pirate, gaily. "My pride outmatches yours on both counts."

"We came to ask if you would join us for a hunt," Fran said. "There is a mark in Cerobbi, close by, a lesser wyrm than that monstrosity sounded in Sochen. Do you still have the hunt leathers I loaned you?"

"Indeed," Ffamran said, surprised. "Yet, you do not need to ferry my disability to a source now; do you indulge me?"

"Indulge?" Margrace said, "scarcely, Ffamran. Fran paid considerably for that technick now bound as a part of your arsenal of skill. You must put it to good use."

When those coiled leathers, a texture most distinguishable, touched Ffamran's skin, the pulse of excitement in response was undeniable. The sensation was – not greater than but quite different to the excitement that took Ffamran when bare weighted flesh would slide against his back. The weight of the leather felt – good, the weaponry like coiled potential energy in the form of a gun; a spring, a compression waiting for release.

Cerobbi smelled most distinct to Tchita, less of coeurl piss and humid earth, more of the coast's high salt and a wyrm's sulfurous leaving. Ffamran paused to breathe, to find his way with that staff as his eyes, the heaviness of Fran's borrowed gun in his other hand. It struck him then he should have his housekeeper in Archades send Aarron's guns, for at last he had a use to which he could put the things. He laughed then, aloud that Margrace commented on the inevitable Bunansa madness, for Ffamran realized he should just buy himself a new set and far better than Aarron's antiquities.

They fought as they had on Tchita, where Margrace's long sight would call the enemy, Ffamran's concentration and that singing, calling hub of a beast's heart to merge; the bullet to fly, and Fran or Margrace's deft ease to end the pitiful beast.

"Another comes," Margrace said, and, "if you want a pilot, Fran and I know someone who may suit. A pair, if you are willing to sponsor."

Ffamran fired; the wet flesh that surrounded his momentary marriage to the bullet's metal had him flush, sweat prickling on his neck, the whimpering cry of the beast a grand satisfaction to follow that sensation. "A pair, to _sponsor_? You imply that I need to pay for their instruction. Am I a charity?"

"No," Fran said, and she grunted as she dispatched the grave-wounded beast with a horrible startling snap of bone that Ffamran near fumbled the shot he sought to load. "Yet others have given you kindness; do you not wish to pass such kindness forward, or will you hoard it all to yourself?"

"I did not deny that I would consider it," Ffamran protested, and licked a finger to run about the rim of the chamber before thumbing that shot home.

"Tis done then," Margrace said, happily, "I shall introduce you at dinner when they next come to Balfonheim; they are out on a long hunt. That dinner will be on your account, Ffamran, and to your right?"

"I did not state that I would consider it," Ffamran muttered.

"To your _right_ ," Fran repeated, strident; Ffamran raised his gun, focused, and fired.

Perhaps it was that joyful nonchalance, that hunt a great success, his skin untouched by beast or sunburn for his diligent efforts at pre-emptive baking; perhaps it was Fran and Margrace's bantering insults of each other's prowess after that hunt as they sprawled up on his house's verandah drinking Moogle moonshine; perhaps it was simply the moonshine. It was near midnight when Tello escorted Ffamran to his latest preferential house, and for that unusual lateness and vicariously complimentary crowd within, Ffamran ventured that night to where he had not before: a public room that he found wretched with both stink and sex.

He did not partake. He listened, for a time, for a long time; the sounds were undeniable, the stink of it. He listened, and could hear only the slap of flesh on flesh, the muffled pain, the tolerant grunts and gasps for breath. No names were spoken, no requests aired. Ffamran had been ready when he walked in here, so hard it almost hurt, but somewhat kept his fingertips trailing the wall that he would not venture to the centre where someone might seek to involve him.

Ffamran considered what it was that had so startlingly killed his desire. He could _know_ no one in this room, true; would never know who took him. Here there would be no introduction, no flirtation, no pretence of that normality that could lie between a man and a woman; yet here, Ffamran knew, everyone assuredly knew _him_.

He sought to leave then, closing the door behind him and walking that path to the entrance, so well traveled that Ffamran no longer bothered with a cane. For a time he could not determine what had happened, so shocked was he at the lurch of the world, the blank vertigo that kept him from recognition. Thought re-imposed itself slowly, to explain: he was summarily knocked into a bathroom, hard flesh against his back, a ridged, scarred forearm against his throat that his first startled shout came as nothing more than a croak. The tiles were cool and damp, the room itself immaculate enough that Ffamran could only scent the faintest trace of cleanser over the sweat-stink of the flesh that pinned him to the wall. Fingers ripped his shirt, irreverent enough that Ffamran's anger flared; the removal of his pants involved the use of a knife for the complexity of the knot he wore at his waist.

"You will stop," Ffamran said, still calm. A mistaken liaison, perhaps, a partner promised somewhat on another night thinking to claim now.

"You," said the voice, entirely unfamiliar for that accent, that vicious growl that at last set Ffamran's fear to his throat, "prefer it this way, roughly. I know, everyone talks of it; I heard. And now I will hear you cry."

The knife that had unpeeled his trousers was set now to Ffamran's throat, to tilt his head back and set his chin against the tile. The voice, that vile voice growled something as to the extent of struggle that would be permitted, namely: none.

Something wet trickled down the length of Ffamran's neck. He realized, belatedly, blood. He tried to lift a leg, to get his knee against tile and push back, but he could not for the constriction of his trousers about his ankles. A hairy knee pushed between his, a hand on the back of his neck to match the knife at the front, and whatever that force applied, Ffamran did not bend.

"You are entirely mistaken, unfortunately; none of this is my preference. I suggest you find yourself an appropriate room and release me."

"I have watched you," said the voice, "and tried to approach you, but every time you shunned me in favour of others, every time. I am so handsome, you blind miserable creature, I am not so used to rejection to watch you walk away with the ugliest bird, all because they could sing you a prettier song. You think you can walk away now? You think you have the right to order me? I would have taken you willingly in that public room, I would have left you able to walk. Now, now, you walked away from me there, and too many times before; you can't walk away from me here. If you beg, lordling, I will refrain from breaking your spine before I take you with my blade, but your eyes – ah – those you have no need of. My blade will take your eyes for my pride."

"Your blade's prick is no doubt more effective than your own."

There was – after that – pain, of being punched from behind that his face met the tile, of the first slashing viciousness across his hips, the stab and stab and then the sawing applied to his right thigh starting like a slow torture just above the bend of his knee; the fingers, the force; through all of those scant swift moments Ffamran saw only that blankness still, his ears deafened by a whine that he hoped was only remnant pain and not his voice. He wondered – for no colour came with this excessive pain, none of that spiraling sparkling reminder of sight, nothing.

Ffamran thought of Archades, a path to meaning through that great pain-filled nothingness. An assassin sent from there, some revenge from Gregoroth the younger, someone wanting to isolate Larsa, someone wanting to support Larsa, someone, anyone, from Archades. Someone Cidolphus had insulted; a vengeful Dalmascan taking recompense from the war's end; a rival airship company wanting the secrets of navigation and manufacture; something, _something_ here had to make sense—yet nothing, there was nothing but speechless struggle, and the patter of blood on tile. Ffamran near wept for the idiocy of a death like this, for nothing but his sheer inability to prevent this, to see a face that he could be a witness to his own attempted murder. How small, how petty, that he would die like this, even worse that he would _live_ with this after. Ffamran struggled to grasp at meaning, at purpose in a death like this, and found only nothing.

The goading had done what Ffamran intended it to do: take the blade away from his throat. He twisted as best he could for how he was pinned, an elbow pressing right in the curve of his lower back that his fear swelled, for his spine would surely break as he tried to move. The knife working up through the meat of his thigh was nothing in comparison to that fear. He would end now being hamstrung, he recognized, back of knee all the way up to his buttock with a vile, vicious and unnecessary jerking that sent waves of blankness to end all thought.

He would not be further crippled; he would not, and he would not die like this. One arm freed, one leg; Ffamran pushed back into that blade and that unmentionable other pain that felt, already, of the scream of his spine's surrender, and gained enough leverage that he could half-turn. He had no weapon, but he had his hand free; Fran's well-taught and tested technique pulled all thought from his mind and into his fingertips that he could see the world as a string of sharp-visualized target-lines—and target he did—

_Eye_ , Ffamran thought, and found it strangely firm, strangely slimed when it burst against his fingertips; he could think of no parallel in his past experience against which to measure that sensation, nor the deafening shriek that came from his assailant. _Throat_ , Ffamran thought, for his ears hurt at that, and the gristle there as he ripped away that scream was tougher than he had thought it would prove. _Heart_ , Ffamran thought, if the man had one; he did, indeed, but all his ribcage's fine design could not hold it together, for the route Ffamran took was through the underside.

The bathroom stunk; blood, spilled bowels, something fouler that had Ffamran collapse, boneless, to heave his supper over the edge of what felt like a bathtub. The interior of an eyeball, he must remember, did not smell of anything that should ever be exposed to air.

It must have been the spill of blood under the door's elevation that alerted someone passing to his presence, for Ffamran could not speak above the silent tally of his injuries; that giant wound that kept him prone, some stab wound unnoticed to his arm in that latter struggle, slashes, like too many gaping unkissed lips scattered across his back, shoulders, his hips, the ache in every joint of his fingers and wrist for the force he had put into that inappropriate weapon, the pinprick at his throat, the tight swollenness of his back a vice that clenched him immoveable, a nick on his jaw from somewhere, the bone-deep split of skin on his forehead—

The door clicked open; Ffamran did not look up, for what would be the purpose in that?

"Gods, that's Ffam – My Lord Bunansa? _Ffamran_ , get up—"

In that aftermath, the proprietor did not apologise for which Ffamran was grateful; an apology would have implied that she knew, somewhat, of what might have occurred. She did everything in her power to get him home, and silently, those paired witnesses that had initially carried him from that mess silenced with money, threats, pleading all together. Tello did not offer any commentary through that post-midnight procession, but kept only a touch on the back of Ffamran's limp hand. He did not offer reproach as he ordered the houseguards to lay Ffamran out on his great bed. There was some sanity there, at last; Ffamran could smell himself, his own bed, the thickness of Moogle musk, everything to which he was accustomed. Sanity was not welcome, however, for with that came such pain he screamed into his wrist, biting until his teeth hit bone, before Tello could set something slick and numbing across the worst of the wounds.

The Moogle third cleaned with sparing potion while the second sewed tendon and muscle together again; Tello waited with what smelled like soup, and tea laced with enough sedatives on that scented steam it may as well have been a pipe full of weed.

"These are all deep enough to scar," Tello warned. "Your thigh especially. I will not use excess magicks on anything but the bruises, the nicks. The slash is deep enough that if the curative heals the exterior before the interior you will develop an abscess, and lose a leg."

"He tried to break my spine," Ffamran spoke, at last; his voice was not his own. "He tried to take my leg. With a _knife_ , Tello. A knife!"

"Entirely inappropriate," said the Moogle. "Small wonder the extent of the butchery. He would have needed a serrated edge to get through your femur."

"Am I not crippled enough to satisfy any man?"

"Crippled?" Tello asked, and the tug of the needle on that well-numbed flesh paused. "Considering you lie here without a single mortal wound while your assailant lies in, from what I understand, a grave, I think you will be hard-pressed to convince any of your incapability from this day forth." The Moogle's consideration was a tangible weight. "Though someone will have to clean the blood out from under your fingernails."

"I'm going to laugh," Ffamran announced, "and once I start, I will not stop."

Tello instead fed him that sedative – "you will be suffering a wretched stomach in the morning," the Moogle grumbled, "taking all this without food" – that Ffamran blinked –

—and found himself stiff, near-screaming, and with the feel of warm sun on his face. The windows were open, and it was only that which gave him his sense of place, for Balfonheim's stiff afternoon breeze carved its map across the room that Ffamran could tell on the instant time, place, the direction in which he faced.

It was from incident such as this that Zargabaath had protected him, Ffamran realized. Idiot attack, a purposeless death; Ffamran owed Zargabaath more than he could ever have admitted, before this. A lifestyle that should have had him dead in a gutter a hundred times over for equally stupid reasons, equally purposeless risks taken, but that Zargabaath had found a way to allow Ffamran his purposeless activity without purposeless threat.

Ffamran recalled wondering why Larsa had never recognized in Zargabaath's behaviour that protective affection as some misguided paternalism. Now, that wondering seemed bitterly ironic; Ffamran had somehow managed to do the same thing. Zargabaath, Zargabaath, scorned and reviled as the Emperor's dark and dirty shadow, Ffamran ached for the man's familiar voice that he nearly wept. This would never have happened if Zargabaath had his way, if Basch—

Perhaps it was simply paternal care that every man could not acknowledge, for how could a son ever grow to be another's father unless he outstripped his own parent?

"Tello!" Ffamran called twice before the Moogle came. He could push up onto his arms, that horrendously frightening bruise about his spine eased to nothingness, but the pinch of pain about his thigh would not let him turn. "Will you get pen and paper, I need to write a letter. Or, rather, compose a letter."

"To whom?"

"To Larsa; I have yet to write back to him. Write him happy things, of the business, the magnificent weather, add a postscript to Zargabaath."

"In the postscript?"

"Thank him," Ffamran said. "Just – I – just thank him. And thank you, Tello."

"It's what you pay me for," the Moogle said, yet he patted the back of Ffamran's hand with an affection entirely unbound by salary.

The first thought after that was to retreat; to stay here, safely bound by these defined walls. Ffamran had lived in Archades like that for so long, his staff delivering what business decisions necessary to his residence, his departures carefully planned that he could not get lost, disoriented, be made vulnerable. He did not want to retreat again, that blankness that had rendered so many of his years a blur. Ffamran's recollection of distant Archades seemed a veritable maze of memories; of remembering remembrances, memories of having memories of a memory. Nothing in Archades had been actual, immediate. Ffamran could not go back to that blankness: he was in Balfonheim.

Balfonheim was defined by its difference from Archades. Ffamran waited two days until that great wound about his thigh drained enough that Tello could force-heal it for walking, for Ffamran would not convalesce that others might hear of his wounding. He met with other, astrologically-minded associates, discovered on a long-past outing with Margrace, for debate in a coffee house until the early hours of dawn. He ventured to Balfonheim's over-loud open tavern with Margrace and Fran to meet their potential piloting duo, and signed those two under contract. Their lack of gil or residence had him offer to set them up in residence in that lower, self-contained apartment in his house's basement, and they leapt eagerly to embrace such an offer. Ffamran kept his routine unchanged, waking early to walk the length of the harbour and back unaccompanied before the heat of Balfonheim's day could hit, barefoot in the sand. His solitude then did not make him sweat more than the light exertion would merit. Hunting; ah, _that_ Ffamran did as often as he could. He shipped over a pair of puppies from the kennels back in Archades to train, set the Moogle trio to customizing weapons that he could hunt on his own, with his dogs acting as Fran and Margrace had to sight with a bark and bring down with a bite. Ffamran learned, with Tello's second a delighted source of such lore, to mix and mingle technicks that he often startled Fran, Margrace, whichever hunting band he appended himself to; he rapidly earned himself, he discovered, a startling reputation for ferocity defined by intelligence.

For a time Balfonheim's salted air kept away thought of anything but the extent of differences between itself and Archades.

Ffamran could not bring himself to walk back into another's house, either of comfort or of mere residence. It was either his house, the rapidly growing steel skeleton of that second prototype, or the open sky. From past acquaintances made and remembered, Ffamran gave Tello some addresses, some brief messages for delivery that when the itch grew too impossible the Moogle could escort likeminded males direct into the secure heart of Ffamran's much-reduced kingdom. Cradled in that ambiguous comfort, Ffamran knew Balfonheim was not at all different from Archades, for Ffamran proved himself over and over exactly the same sad, blinded creature he had been in that distant city. At least Balfonheim had much better weather compared to Archades, brisk without the need for that aching, numbing accompaniment of cold.

It was all a lie, this life. Everything in Ffamran's mind was only a memory defined by absences. His knowledge of this new city could have been overlaid on Archades without concern, for both cities were only a grid of lines to Ffamran's eye; Ffamran mapped places that he could know them, but he _only_ knew them as a map, a line traced through the darkness of his mind's eye. He could not tell the difference, had no way to discern between what was real in his memory and what was only believed. He could fondle those dutiful letters Larsa sent, _Basch is well, I have a chest hair, Basch is most dedicated, Zargabaath says you are welcome you ungrateful nuisance, Basch is out in the provinces subduing rebellion, my greetings to Margrace and Fran, I grew another three inches last week_ , and never know what written in that letter was real, what was not.

The letter itself Ffamran could admit was real. Ffamran could feel it, smooth but for the creases. He could fold it, unfold it, twist it into a flower or craft it into an airship for flight to demonstrate some argument to Tello for consideration. As certain as he sat, as certain as his scars, the letter itself existed, whatever the endless potentiality of those unseen words scribed there.

Even as Ffamran held that piece of paper, he knew his hand held only emptiness.

.

  



	17. Chapter 17

It was clad in a loose shirt and trousers that Basch left the airship, his Magister's armour and all the weighted implication of such left even further behind, back in Archades.

The evening air was brisk enough he was glad for his sleeves. He made his way from the aerodrome, the celebratory incense clustered and glowing at each corner making him sneeze. A cluster of grinning girls, burdened with garlands of flowers, shouted him a pardon for his vulgar display as they passed; they tinked for the fact that their garb was heavily bedecked with bells.

Basch wiped his nose, abashed. "What does Balfonheim celebrate this fine evening?"

"Why," said a giggler, near as tall as Basch, "nothing; Balfonheim celebrates!"

They left him with his own garland of flowers, false ones at that; he took it off as soon as they had rounded the corner that he would not insult them. For want of somewhere convenient to discard it, he held those paper blooms crumpled in one fist as he made his way past thickening crowds to the next intersection, hunting for a street name.

Balfonheim always celebrated; Basch could recall even in those dire days before Bahamut, even then Balfonheim celebrated, murdered, rioted, loved. Life was for living, right until the day of a man's death, and then, as Reddas' passing had proven, the celebration was even greater in the sheer joy of reveled remembrance. Basch avoided meeting anyone's gaze or glancing into the multiplicity of venues he passed, but he could not avoid the hearing the music spilling onto the streets, nor the people that likewise overflowed. More often than not those latter walked in pairs or crowds of matched genders, well dressed enough here for the quality of the neighbourhood that Basch felt starkly uncomfortable both for his rumpled shirt and the overt gazes that licked across his shoulders. For the former discomfort Basch blamed Archades' sense of appropriateness for Basch had never cared so for his dress; the latter was his own sense of the appropriate. Whoever had found Ffamran this house had not scrupled to disguise Ffamran's preference, yet, at least, had not sited him in that rough trade area close to the docks.

Two false turns later, three queries for directions, and Basch found the street. Quiet considering its proximity to the public strip, its quaintness had Basch pause. He had not expected to find something as mannered as this, here in Balfonheim and especially next to such nightlife. A multitude of curving streetlamps flooded the white stone paving with warm light, setting it to shimmer as though just kissed by rain; flowers and fences lined the street itself, feathery trees scarce disguising the sky. Music from the local strip sounded much distorted here, through distance and echo, and half-drowned by the proximity of the ocean's wave. Basch had neglected to bring with him Ffamran's letter to Larsa with its convenient return address. He had memorized that instead, but now, facing down that street of identical house-fronts and tall, wrought-iron gates, Basch doubted his memory of the number. He doubted the impulse that brought him here.

He would not retreat for that momentary sense of disorientation. Basch set his shoulders and found the number, at the crest of the street's slight hill. There were geraniums lining the verandah, young jasmine vines creeping up the front gates, wafting thick scent to rival the remnant incense. For some time Basch stood in the street below the house, just watching, assessing, thoughtless for the sake of his searching eyes. The house was well-lit that every window, top floors and half-submerged basement, flooded with light; a window open upstairs permitted a curtain to bell as it caught the breeze, the half-height windows to the basement likewise flung open against their bars. Such light gave Basch pause; if Ffamran had been alone he may have had the windows open for his delight in the breeze, yet he would not have kept the house so well lit.

The front gate, wrought iron twice Basch's height, proved locked. He rattled vaguely, testing, and saw a curtain on the lower floor twitch at the sound, a quick peek. A moment later the front door opened, spilling gold across the verandah, and a Moogle walked with brisk pace to the gate.

"Are you here for upstairs or down?" the Moogle asked, but before Basch could air his uncertainty, the Moogle's glance took him in, almost insultingly direct from an unexpected source. "Upstairs," the Moogle said. "You're late. At least you brought flowers."

The pebbled path mapped their path with a vaguely martial sound; the verandah steps complained under Basch's weight as he mounted. Basch tossed that crumpled cluster of his paper garland into the geranium bush, wiping his palms dry on his trousers. He should – he knew he should speak, to tell the Moogle he was distinctly not expected, but the words would not come. The treacherous core of him longed to just go, up there, to take what Ffamran evidently still offered. Ffamran – had not changed whatever months had passed; for a moment something in Basch tightened, strained at his throat like a shout that needed release. How much of Ffamran's act of early heartache had been an Archadian lie; how much of Ffamran's act of indifference at the end had been the truth?

The full flight of stairs was narrow, well-spaced, but as the Moogle directed him up, a voice Basch had not thought to hear had him halt, aghast for recognition here where he had never thought to be so known.

" _Basch?_ What are you doing—? _Basch?_ "

He turned, startled, to see Vaan uncoiling from where he poked his head over the back of a lounge. The grin on the boy's face was almost a grimace of shock; a book fell from a slack hand.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here," Vaan said, "well, I bed in the basement, actually. I—Ffamran's kind of my patron, I suppose, and the food here's better than anything Penelo's ever cooked me, and he had the room -"

"—Vaan," Basch said, pained. "Vaan, how did you come to this? What hardship – if you needed help, all you had to do was ask, Vaan."

"Oh," said that boy, and laughed liberally. "You think – I wouldn't do that, Basch. I'm employed a little more gainfully: Ffamran's teaching me to fly, to pilot. Not directly, of course, but he's paying. Penelo would probably break my neck for me if I even thought of it –anyway, she'll be glad to see you again if she catches you, she's out dancing." Vaan shrugged, scratched at his jaw as he nodded at the stairs, awkward. "She won't stay in the house when Ffamran entertains." The boy squinted. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I know Ffamran," Basch said, and felt the heat start to flame. The collar of his shirt of a sudden felt more constricting than any of his armor. "From Archades. I was passing through, on business, I thought to visit."

"Oh," said Vaan. "For a moment, I thought you were – upstairs – yeah. Funny, huh, seeing as you thought the same of me?"

""You should have spoken up," said the Moogle, a reproachful set to his ears when Basch met that gaze. "I thought you were invited."

"Would you have allowed me entrance if I had spoken so?"

"Certainly," the Moogle said, "Ffamran left instructions that visitors from Archades may on occasion pass by – and I would have directed you out the back with our other guests, or into the parlor if your preference was for privacy. If you would care to move through either way, I will let Ffamran know you are here. Your name?"

"Don't disturb him," Basch said, hastily; he could not conceive of waiting alone, his mind wending paths inexorable as to Ffamran's current function. "I would wait with the others, if my presence would not disturb them. Thank you."

"As you wish," said the Moogle. "Make yourself useful, boy, get Ffamran's guest a drink and show him out to the others."

"I'm not your fourth, Tello," Vaan scowled. "I'll do it, but just because it's Basch. Come on, I'll introduce you to the rest of the losers mooching off Ffamran."

The Moogle, Tello, made himself scarce; Vaan leapt over the back of the sofa to lead. Basch followed him outside. The yard here was high-walled enough to be reminiscent of those great Archadian manses, the likes of which Basch and Margrace had kidnapped a hazed Ffamran, an exercise that seemed a lifetime ago. An ancient tree dominated the centre of that court, pebbled paths raked with care in great swirls and careless footprints scattered across. It was stark, this, in comparison to the great wilderness Ffamran had cultivated in his townhouse in Archades.

As Basch followed Vaan onto those pebbles, a pair of lanky dogs trotted up, alert until Vaan spoke a single curt _down_. Basch held his fingers out regardless, that one dog sniffed disinterestedly as the other forced his skull against that proffered palm, eager for affection. The silk of the fur there was that of a sighthound, a hunter's dog; Ffamran indeed had not changed, and the emotion that came with the thought this time was one of warmth.

Not quite under the tree's canopy, a cluster of silhouettes arrayed themselves around a contained blaze, sparks losing themselves in the stars overhead. "This is Basch fon Ronsenburg," was the extent of Vaan's formal introduction; the boy disappeared to find a glass despite Basch's protestations he did not wish a drink.

"Shouldn't you be upstairs?" asked one, languid, eyes flicking dismissively across Basch's shoulders.

"Basch fon Ronsenburg," another said, sharper than the first. "I know that name. The kingslayer. Weren't you executed?"

"Obviously," a third said, "if he stands before you the proof of your eyes should indicate sufficiently otherwise."

"Nevertheless," said that second, "a man could lie about a name with ease: names can't be deductive proof."

"Nothing spoken can ever be proof," said that first. "Words win no arguments; arguments are only settled by demonstration."

"Oh, don't start again!" Vaan lamented. For want of a table to set the glass Vaan proffered, Basch held that iced beverage instead, awkward. The boy slurped loudly his own, that the others gathered about the flame stirred and shifted in disgust.

Basch cleared his throat. "And you are—"

"They're hunters, from Montblanc's clan," Vaan answered Basch's question, laughingly. "But they don't exactly use weapons; they're tacticians, but don't let the intellectual talk convince you there's any method in their madness. They're more used to plotting points on paper than actually penetrating anything. Eh, Lucen?"

"And you're all here for—" Basch faltered.

"For the hunt on the morrow," Lucen said, shortly.

Vaan explained with greater depth. "Margrace got tired of hunting with Ffamran because he couldn't get more than a single hit in, so he scrounged this lot up from somewhere. I don't know about hunts; they spend most their time out here shooting at fixed targets, fondling their accessories and finding cruel and unusual applications for nihopaloa fragments." Vaan shook his glass, testing, and eyed the dry ice within with a look of surprise for the loss of his drink. "Out on the field Ffamran runs rings around them without trying; you're all talk and no play, Lucen."

"It would be rude to insult our patron by so thoroughly thrashing his hit rate," Lucen said.

"Everyone else gets to thrash Ffamran," Vaan said, gleeful enough Basch flinched. "Just not you."

"Streetrat."

"Effete."

"Ignorant."

"Glad to hear you admit it."

Basch stepped back, away from the flame, as Vaan and Lucen expounded with excessive words an argument that no doubt had no conclusion. Upstairs and downstairs; this very capacity of the house startled Basch, for Ffamran surrounded himself with people unlike anything Basch had seen in Archades. Yet how much of that solitude had been Ffamran's true isolation, or had that lord had merely kept such friendships and functions entirely separate from when he had entertained Basch? Upstairs or downstairs; where had Ffamran kept Basch, friend or –

A cry halted the argument. Vaan buried his face in his glass, tonguing for that last piece of ice; the technicians paused and turned to the house, glancing up at the lit window. Although Lucen did not do so, Basch noted, instead taking the rest of his drink in a single swallow so loud Basch heard it over the crack of flame.

"That was Ffamran."

Lucen's lips worked, but it was the second technician who answered Basch, sharp and snide. "Obviously."

The glass did not balance easily on pebble; Basch let it topple, wasted. He could not recollect crossing that court back into the house, but the dogs draped at the threshold nearly tripped him when he tried to leap across their recumbence. He took the stairs two at a time that his thighs ached when he reached the top of that steep flight. Too many doors; Basch listened instead, _heard_ , yet halted with his hand on the door handle and his heart pounding a beat he did not want to hear.

Ffamran had never made excuses, never apologized for this. This punishment he imposed on himself, and who was Basch to stop him – stop him?

When Basch opened the door regardless he did not look up for a long moment, for the simple act of opening that door felt an undeniable admittance of his own desire. Half of him, most of him, wanted to be in this room with nothing more to consider than his own want.

Yet when Basch did look up, his desire could not win against the confusion.

As though the scene had been painted monochrome, there was but one colour that filled Basch's sight: there was too much skin within, too much for one man to need for satisfaction. And Ffamran, oh, Ffamran, always in the middle for that hungry selfishness that Basch wanted calling _his_ name; Ffamran, unexpectedly gilded with more than the light, sun-kissed hair awry with a length Basch had thought Ffamran disdained. All four men about that bed were slicked and straining, but Ffamran more than the nameless trio; Basch felt his throat constrict on any words he could have said. A chain, a chain, of mouth and cock and hunger, and the only forward motion in the fourth of that cluster who moved with all the hard force so familiar to Basch that as he watched, he could feel the ragged slide of every thrust as though he knelt in Ffamran's place.

He could not look away then, though a thousand screaming thoughts told him to do so, to shut the door, that there could be no happy conclusion to such an image. It was not the others than inflamed him, nor even the taut, trembling extent of Ffamran's nudity, but instead Ffamran's face; even as he shuddered and sounded with the rapidity of applied fucking, Ffamran's blind devotion to his one task did not waver. Ffamran had lavished Basch as thoroughly as this, many a time; Basch could remember his own shock that another's willingness to choke for his sake could be so complete, so total that it almost resembled love where there should be none. Ah, well; Basch watched, for whatever the hollow of Ffamran's cheeks or the depth of his throat, the very fact that he lavished another so completely could only prove that act meaningless.

Unnoticed for the complexity of their four-way knot, every breath brought the scent of their efforts to coil in the depth of Basch's lungs, a marlboro's spreading toxin. Every moment brought more sound, mostly of Ffamran's muffled complaint, to set aflame that fire Basch had banked so ineffectively on Ffamran's departure. Basch did not know what he wanted, then; to break apart that cluster or to join them, to shout and fight and hurt those that dared this insult on Ffamran's rippling flesh—

Ffamran moaned, muffled, as his attention drew a shuddering climax from that one benefiting from his service. He rocked back when done, gasping for air, gulping; his cheeks were wet, Basch saw, shining with tears from the depth he spanned. His palms braced on his knees, Ffamran arched further that the man that still thrust so vigorously could wrap fingers about that proffered throat. The third, standing, merely grunted when he came into the mouth of he who had so tasked Ffamran's tongue. That one reached, lips pursed and eyes dry, to add his hands to those holding Ffamran, his fingers there to hold Ffamran's slack jaw wide.

Basch curled, a full-body shudder and shout frozen motionless, silent, for the man still seated leaned over and parted his lips to let that thick white strand fall, glistening and unbroken and vengefully slow, into Ffamran's unaware patience.

After that, the scene was indeed monochrome and all in red, _insanity_ , for that insult of that image of Ffamran taut, held, forced open and waiting that even had he wanted otherwise he could do nothing but swallow that twice-passed spend. An arsonist's spark, that image, for the next coherent thought that came after was that Basch's shoulder hurt; his knuckles _burned_ ; that he was no longer indoors, and that even naked Ffamran was much heavier than Basch had expected, and certainly too heavy to be held over a bruised shoulder most recently used to knock a substantially muscled butch halfway across the room.

"I can smell you," Ffamran said, his voice wavering for but a short moment before confidence asserted itself. "I know it's you, Basch. You scared me witless when you grabbed me. Will you put me down?"

"No," Basch choked, he raged; his eyes seared and stung to match the rawness of his throat. "I will not. You – you –"

Ffamran shifted, uneasy folded across Basch's shoulder; instead of letting the man go Basch sat – the porch step, the front verandah, heavy geranium-scent instead of that raw sex that the rage subsided, leaving instead only a horrible reluctant emptiness. He had fled out the front of the house after that inappropriate fight. He still could not willingly release Ffamran, instead sliding him to a mildly more dignified position that he could rock that too-tall form close in an embrace more suited to a child. Ffamran did not struggle, nor return the grasp. His surrendered height, hot against Basch's shirt and arm, sprawled and ungainly and unbearably beautiful, did not seem real.

"Why are you here?" Ffamran asked, at last.

Even as Basch's fingers hunted along that sweaty flesh, seeking, it seemed he could not find the words that he said possibly the worst thing first. "I came – I brought a missive from Larsa –"

"I see," Ffamran said, cool.

It was indeed fortunate he could not see, though his eyes were open that the hazel glinted gold in torchlight; Basch found use for his shirtsleeve in pressing away that remnant rage leaking from his own eyes. Into that continued silence, Ffamran spoke again.

"A missive that could not be trusted to the Moogle mail network?"

Ffamran's flesh was changed, much changed; Basch's fingers found a great knotted scar on the back of his thigh, a touch that had Ffamran flinch; curved ridges of scars that marked a pattern of pain across hips, lower back, buttocks. Basch found his own next breath likewise ragged.

"I volunteered. Tell me you did not choose to have these wounds inflicted on yourself. Tell me, Ffamran, _tell me_ , for these are the work of a blade—"

"I did not ask for that marking. Yet in a way, a choice, for the alternative would have been to allow worse; those scars that disturb you so are indication that I am not so tolerant of hard use."

"Worse?" Basch almost laughed; his fingers could not leave the great ragged tissue that knotted along the back of Ffamran's thigh. "This one – this scar, Ffamran, you were so nearly lamed with it. How could any rape be worse than the insult you allow—what I saw—inflicted – upstairs?"

"The difference is that I _allow_ it." Ffamran set his heel on the floor and stood, and Basch could not hold him; did not try, did not rise, that he had to look up to where Ffamran stretched. A long-fingered hand swept back the fall of that gilt hair with a mannerism Basch had not seen, had not known, to leave Ffamran's profile stark against the dark sky. "Should I have wept like a child and surrendered? You will never understand, Basch fon Ronsenburg. Whatever that you might think the scars a blight representative of my incompetent defense, I do not regret their presence."

"You are not one to talk to me of scars," Basch said; he did not expect the growl in his voice to be so stark.

"Nor incompetence," Ffamran agreed.

Basch rose then, and snatched at Ffamran's wrist with a motion that Ffamran seemed to expect, for he did not flinch. What, then, Basch did not know what he thought to do, for the anger fled at the feel of Ffamran's flesh, Ffamran's pulse, to leave only a pained ache.

Evidently he had not shut the front door in his fit of rage, for the first herald to the presences there was the creak of that wooden verandah. Basch turned; in various states of dress and bruising the three men – whores, _whores_ \- stood at uneasy attention.

"Ffamran, we're all here if you need us. Are you alright?"

"I am as you see me in my full bared glory," Ffamran replied, "somewhat chilled and mildly concerned at what the sight of my nakedness could be doing to the neighbors. Mass conversions to the Archadian cause; no doubt my guest's intention when he brought me down here so precipitously. What do you think, boys: Ffamran's bared arsenal to bring the masses to their knees?"

One of the three caught Basch's eye and made a warning gesture, silent and threatening. The first spoke again: "Certainly a technick easier to learn than the others you toy with. If you need anything, a robe from upstairs, an unwanted guest evicted—"

"Your solicitude is noted," Ffamran said, somewhat wry. "I will apologise for the change in plans, yet my unexpected guest seems intent on monopolizing my presence. Another time?"

"Another time," that one agreed; he also turned to join the other two in glaring at Basch. "Though will we still see you for supper tomorrow?"

"Assuredly," Ffamran said, "if the hunt goes to schedule."

Only as they made to move past did Basch realize he still gripped Ffamran's wrist, for they could not move through that join. He let his hand drop, Ffamran's also, and could not watch that trio leave. That brief conversation proved Basch's assumption a lie; these were not whores.

"You have dedicated friends," Basch said, bitterly, "to protect you against all violent incursion but their own."

"Your implication is resented," Ffamran said. "Both implications: it was neither they nor any other 'friends' that preserved my flesh from further wounding than these scars indicate. As you would have discovered had I not recognized your scent, I am quite able to protect myself. Now I intend to go inside and avail myself of the expansive merits of my wardrobe. I doubt your message was regarding my arsenal or requires my state of undress, so follow, and let's hear what Archades wants of me that they must send you."

Inside, Basch could feel only shame to find three Moogles, including that one that had permitted him entrance, well armed and standing ready; it seemed Vaan had been the sole figure that held back that attack. The boy's eyes, when he met Basch's gaze now, were half of steel and half of bewilderment.

"I apologise," Basch said; "I have made a needless fool of myself."

"Are they all armed and aggrieved?" Ffamran asked, amused. "I tell them, again and again, unless they want the Bunansa coat of arms made into three Moogles rampant, they must stop this sort of thing every time someone struck lovelorn tries to attempt my flesh. I am no wilting prince."

Basch could not hesitate, for Ffamran led the way up that flight of stairs with the confidence of familiarity; the bewildered expression on Vaan's face lingered longer than the Moogles' overt antipathy. Basch ran his palm across his eyes, finding in that touch, that brief darkness, some solidity. Ffamran did not lead him to his bedchamber, thankfully, for Basch did not know how he could hold firm against the evidence of that rucked bedspread, the lingering imagery. Instead, Ffamran led him into a study filled with half-structured contraptions vaguely recognizable from technical lore, scattered across every surface. That did include the floor, that only a tiny, winding clear path was left for Ffamran to walk with unerring steps to behind that great desk. He lifted a puddle of velvet robe from that chair, to shrug into the slide without much concern for the sash at the waist, that when he sat and stretched back Basch could not draw his eyes from flex of the man's torso.

"So tell me what Archades wants of me."

Basch glanced about the room, but short of shifting something, there was nowhere for him to sit. He knew too much of Ffamran's uncanny memory to think that an accidental omission.

"There is a great state function for the signing of the new Ivalician treaty in Dalmasca. Larsa wishes you to attend."

"Not another one," Ffamran replied, and wrinkled his nose. "Three times already the brat's had me spout pleasantries in his stead. I did not accept this exile in exchange for performing as Emperor of the Exterior."

"Larsa will be there also," Basch offered. "He merely – wanted you there, too."

Ffamran leaned forward, to prop his chin on the back of his hand. "For that message, Larsa needed Judge Magister Gabranth? You're being demoted, Basch: whore to delivery boy."

"I told you," Basch said, "I volunteered to bring the message. I was coming to Balfonheim regardless."

"Ah, I see: business. I hear Larsa and Zargabaath have at last put you to a use which suits your temperament, out in the field: what rebellion does the Empire seek to quell on this continent? I had not heard of one."

"No rebellion, unless that sardonic snap of a sulky male counts as rebellion."

"Shall I be offended?" Ffamran asked. "Considering, as even a man as aged as yourself must remember, who enacted that bedroom scene earlier."

Ffamran's eyebrow lifted as he spoke as an inverse of the twist of his lips, the tilt of his chin to the side, the half-lidded eyes; that wry crooked mannerism Basch found familiar, and of a sudden, so painful he had to look away. It was then Basch realized how Ffamran spoke to him, with that mocking he had witnessed the man use against Larsa, against Zargabaath; against the whole world. That realization ached, for Ffamran dealt with him as though Basch were set against him, one of the outside world instead of standing inside that close guard Ffamran kept.

"I came to Balfonheim to see you," Basch said.

"I'm touched," Ffamran said. "Would that I could return the favour."

"I came to Balfonheim," Basch tried, "to be with you."

"A shame you gave me no word, I would have freed my schedule."

The words would not work, the meaning ignored, implicit, nervous words notwithstanding. What could he say, that would penetrate that defense? "I would have gone anywhere, Balfonheim or Giruvegan or the depths of the Cataract, had you been there."

At last, something struck Ffamran. The man shifted, his expression softened. "Basch," and his voice was pained, "please, whatever concern had Larsa or Zargabaath send you here, I appreciate it, but know that it is entirely unnecessary. I know, Margrace told me, that you may well have never matched your preferences to mine. If they think to send you here, to keep a watch on me, to keep me comforted, know that I do not require your service nor need your help."

"My help," Basch said, tightly. "Everyone wants my help, you may be the first that refuses such. My duty, my sword, my shield, my back to take the scars that Dalmasca does not bleed, my heart to break that Ashelia does not weep, my love to die that a nation does not. Forget it, Ffamran; you do not need my help, I shall accept that. Do you want my presence?"

"Who knows where that might lead?" Ffamran shrugged, a shoulder slipping bare and free from the robe that Basch could not look away from the fine bones there, pressed sleek against that gilded skin.

"I quit Archades," Basch said, spelled by that shoulder that he spoke as if dazed. "I spoke to Larsa, to Zargabaath; Noah's armour rests at last where it should, in the depths of a grave dedicated to my brother's life, a life well-lived. I owe no allegiances to any, man or lord. I am taskless, cityless, shiftless and placeless. I come, here, to you, to ask you: do you want my presence?"

Ffamran smiled. "A terrible truth, that tale, or a most beautiful lie; do not tempt me, Basch."

"If you could look at me for half a second," Basch cried, "half a fucking second; I am here because I cannot conceive of myself anywhere else, to find you filled my place with such numbers –"

"What do you want me to say as to that, Basch? Are you here to reprimand me for my extravagance? You will not get an apology, for you have no call on me whatever I might have thought, before. Or are you here for some kind of absolution for that cruel purpose to which Archades set you?"

Absolution: a word, clemency, but what had Basch done to deserve such a thing? Ffamran lounged in that chair, a lord at his desk, and Basch saw him as he had never seen him before, the arrogance despite his dishevelment, the attention that showed in the tense spread of his fingertips across the desk, the set of his bare shoulder against the air. He had such a sense of place, sitting there, such a definite presence that whatever his words they would always seem the right ones, whatever his gracelessness it would only seem a concession that others could not feel so imperfect. Wherever Ffamran went, Basch realized, he _knew_ who he was, granted through that innate self-will, his Archadian birth, that distant Valendian lordship kissed by the gods with such grace that his right to be on this earth that could not be contested, that his right to _be_ , to _live_ and love who and how he willed could not be gainsaid by something as simple as nature, as a majority. Ffamran would always be surrounded by those that sought his incontestable intensity as their guiding light; Moogles to defend one not of their kind, the intellectuals to beg a pittance of direction from that sharp mind, those who would dedicate their every flesh for the chance to catch a smile. Did he seek absolution, Ffamran asked him. Liberation was a part of the implicit meaning of that word, relief.

A liberation to admit this at last, then; a relief, that Basch closed his eyes to speak for he could not risk the sight of rejection.

"In Nalbina," he said, "they kept from me sight of the stars, the sky; I had no ground below me nor a sky above against which I could judge my mortality. Days passed, Ffamran, months, years, time I could not count by food nor function for both were scarce; it was my flesh against the void, my voice against the silence. Of a time I wrenched my arm and worked the flesh of my wrist to blood that I could remember it was _my_ flesh strung so thinly, that I owned it; I shouted until my throat bled that I could remember my mouth, my tongue, my voice was mine. Will I tell you of what suffering I begged for, that I yearned for, that I would be spared the terror of that blind solitude?

"Before that, in Dalmasca, I was not so reviled, but loved instead. I was loved for my dedication to duty, that I did not overlook those who gave me succor when I first fled to that country. Yet, a strangeness, Ffamran, for that very respect was near as terrifying as the void of Nalbina. What could I do in Dalmasca, but nothing to disappoint that great expectation? Oh, I did perform my role to such satisfaction in Dalmasca that none should guess the solitude at night. One, only one did I think could come close to sharing that great silence yet even he could not, would not with me: he argued that loyalty, when divided, could only become the lesser for it, and yet he lied. For the division of his loyalties between Ashelia's flesh and Dalmasca's crown I watched Vossler die; between he and I lay only shared duty, shared failure.

"And before that, in Landis, a lifetime of summers growing apace with my brother's flesh that male form would always hold more familiarity for me against the strangeness of a female; that when we would lie together with a girl between us I would but hold while he set himself to, what could I watch but the visible, comprehensible rise and fall of lust on his own features, for that girl between us was ever and always a mystery, the possibility of a lie, a chance for conflict. Conflict – Ffamran, that inevitable conflict where I watched our city burn for my own weakness, my flaw, that I cared more for preserving the sanctity of my brother's flesh than protecting the town that depended on our blades. He fell wounded, and I took him from battle, I fled that he would live; for that I watched our town die; for that he reviled me, he spat on me, he called me flawed and fallible, my treacherous flesh, my treacherous birth, my treacherous want, and I could not stop running until I fell.

"Then you, Ffamran. Then you. Duty; Zargabaath called you duty, Larsa called you necessary; very well, I would never turn aside from duty, and for a time my lie convinced even me, for I had lied for so many years that it had very nearly become truth. I could continue to lie for as long as you did: words on the weather and conversation I would not waste on a half-deaf aunt. I could get no sleep, Ffamran, but the guilty never sleep in those early hours of the morning, and I was used to such deprivation. Yet you needed me, every line of your body said more than words that you needed me; I should not have returned after you sent me away that first day. What are you, the way you live and love, but evidence that this sentence I have imposed on myself is destined to fail? That I have lived a life of cold silence when the cradle waiting was so soft and warm? This temptation of your flesh, your need: I succumbed, and the very earth rebelled against me as it had done every other time I dared to love, to destroy me again, again, again—

"Yet you've turned all that rebellion to gold with your touch, Ffamran, all conflict, complexity, all turned to your ends; you do not need me, but give me one hint of open invitation and I will fall, I will crawl to the very depths of this temptation and cast all concern to the wind. You do not need me, but I fear I need you."

Only silence. With his eyes closed, Basch had not Ffamran's attuned hearing to determine the man's breath, his thought or hesitance. Only silence; Basch did not open his eyes.

"Well, then," Basch said, thickly for the constriction of his throat. "I cannot say I hoped for a better reception than that, for I do not dare hope any longer. Yet I will stay, in whatever capacity you will have me, even if all there is proves but a distant chance to see you well. I shall avail myself of Fran and Margrace's accommodation until I find other lodgings. Forgive me, my lord, but I will not thank you for your time for you have taken all my life."

"You hard bastard," Ffamran choked; he sounded halfway between laughter and terror. "Does nothing move you?"

"Ffamran—"

"Can you not see it on my face—"

Basch's vision was blurred when he opened his eyes, as though everything the world offered proved too harsh to witness in full focus. It took Basch long moments to blink away that darkness that had permitted his words to come; then he saw Ffamran.

For want of any clear route through the contraptions that littered the study's floor, Basch leapt to the desk, sank to his knees, and claimed that mouth as though he had never kissed before.

"Stmph," Ffamran said, "stop, stop, have you forgotten that deplored use to which my mouth has been put?"

Basch growled; he did not want to think of that regardless of what his senses told him. He set his tongue to the clean salt that coursed down Ffamran's cheeks, tracing that glory back to the source that Ffamran's lids fluttered at the touch of his tongue. "I must forget. It is still _your_ mouth."

"I cannot do this to you," Ffamran said; his hands roamed and spoke otherwise, that Basch pressed back into that touch, fingers along his hips, a palm at his shoulder. "No, I cannot, cannot; you have ever and always deserved more than to be put to such a use. Stay, Basch, if you want to so much; but I will have a room set up for you. I do not – I am – I want you to want this, not to think it is your only choice."

"Will you break me so, that I must witness your midnight habits and not partake?"

"No," Ffamran said, "you will not, witness nor partake. There is one thing our meeting never gave us: time. I will give you that time back, to convince yourself that the earth will not rise up against our touch, that you are not spelled, that I am not some unforgivable temptation set here to taunt you with desire. I do not want you doing this out of some misguided consideration of your brother's abandoned duty. I do not want you to be as the others, sent for on a whim, sent away before the dawn, nothing more between us but sweat and sometimes a bed sheet, and never a night wholly in each other's company. If – if you want this, I want it all, by light of day as well as dusk."

"That does daunt me," Basch said. He closed his hands about Ffamran's wrists when the man would have pulled away, and did not release him until Ffamran's touch returned to his flesh.

"What did you expect?" Ffamran asked; his fingertips danced along Basch's spine, uncanny in precision and pressure that Basch found himself breathless. "That I would take your offering and make you pay and pay again for choosing this path?"

"Yes," Basch said, and could not keep himself from arching against that touch. "Yes."

"I will not," Ffamran said, and removed his hands and his person from Basch's reach. "It is late, I have a hunt tomorrow, and we must set you up a bed and obtain somewhat for dinner. Remove yourself from my desk, if you please, and try to avoid knocking anything else off it that I cannot find it on the morrow. Tello. Tello!"

With efficiency native to both Mooglekind and the Bunansa scientific bent, Basch saw himself set up with a room overlooking the street, at the end of that long corridor, Tello's Moogle second sent to the aerodrome to collect the rest of his belongings before he could think to request such a thing. Vaan and the dogs trailed about as the Moogles scurried, the quizzical expressions on young man and hounds matching for the disturbance of the house.

"What's happening?" Vaan asked, at last, as the Moogles set themselves to applying linen to the freshly-aired mattress despite Basch's protestations he could do such a thing on his own. "What happened, rather, that you were almost yelling at each other half an hour ago and now there's – what – another bed?"

"You always warned me about taking all these – forgive the colloquial – losers in," Ffamran said, lordly in rumpled maroon velvet as no one alive had the right to be. "Well, consider Basch another mouth to defend your breakfast against; you eat far too much regardless."

"Great," Vaan said, still bemused. "Speaking of food, Lucen's lot have already left hunting dinner, probably the only thing they can target successfully anyway. And I'm starving."

"I will shower, then."

Despite Vaan's muttering - "shower," the boy said, despairing, "do you _know_ how long he takes in the shower?" – Ffamran joined them before Basch had scarce begun to feel the pangs of true hunger, for the Archadian day was not so late as here.

Yet, here, in the depths of the geranium-scented evening, serenaded by the celebrations bound within walls, here: wherever Basch had thought to be now, when he had set himself thoughtlessly to this path, it was not _here_ , half a step behind Ffamran, looking back at that jasmine-covered gate as a Moogle locked it securely against the night. Ffamran set the pace, slow enough even with the stutter of a cane's metal tip across the pavement that Vaan ran ahead, behind, back, again and again that Basch remembered how damned wearying the boy's presence had been on his travails in Ashelia's company. Youth, evidently, was for the young.

"Steps," Ffamran said suddenly; with a directed shrug Basch saw it was a vague apology for that cane he had so disdained in Archades. "Balfonheim has no order or regularity as to where they put them. A street can be sloped along one side and stepped on the other that if I but walk a meter out of my path I plant myself face-first. I will learn the way, eventually, but I have not the eight years of Archadian knowledge here yet."

"Shall I take your arm?" Basch asked.

The haste with which Ffamran sheathed that hated cane was enough answer, that Basch measured the length of his rumpled shirtsleeve against Ffamran's crisp-pressed one. He marveled at the new-found tension in that forearm beneath; Ffamran's reference to a hunt had not been an Archadian allusion. Vaan eyed them with conspicuous confusion – "you're just guiding, right?" – that Basch could not think of words to grant any ease to either Vaan or himself.

Dinner was taken under the stars, the daunting blackness of the ocean at night before them as though the earth had opened up and swallowed itself, the breeze stirring Ffamran's hair sufficiently to cause that man's irritation as he tried to eat. Basch could think of few words to fill the emptiness that lay all about them, for ocean and words unsaid, assumptions presumed. He felt eyes on him, on Ffamran. The latter he could understand for Ffamran's presence always drew eyes that assumed he would not mind for he could not see the stares. The fact that others stared at him, assessing, cool or warm, had Basch realize with a sudden flush that all Balfonheim did what Tello had at the gate, and assume his flesh mapped him for Ffamran's preference. What could he do against the assumption but hold his silence, awkward and uneasy – he did not think he could ever become accustomed to such a stare.

Yet the susurrus of surrounding conversation, undisturbed for their presence, was enough to ease that thought that Basch wondered if he was perhaps oversensitive. Vaan's viper tongue and Ffamran's convoluted responses passed time until they could at last return, to what seemed the sanctity of the house for all Basch had not known it the day prior, and to bed for the lateness of the hour. From the upper landing of those narrow stairs Basch watched as Ffamran made his way down to the other end of the corridor, not looking back – for of course, what need would he have to turn?

The pair of them also proved watched by another, that when Basch turned he started to see Vaan still at the bottom of the steps, a calculating look quite undisguised on his face.

"Do you need to be assisted to your own bed?" Basch rasped when he spoke, for he nearly had not spoken at all through the course of the evening. "Have you lost your way?"

"Just saying goodnight," said the boy, and Basch did not wait to see him leave, though he heard the front door click closed in Vaan's wake.

The linen was cool, to rapidly warm with the heat of his own body; Basch stared for a while at the lines of light across the ceiling, leaking about the edges of the curtains. Wherever he had thought he would end up this night it was also not here, scarcely four rooms away from Ffamran's own bed and abed in clean, crisp linen, and quite alone. No – not quite alone, for before he drifted off he heard the door squeak open, the soft rustling footsteps that padded across the carpet. The sudden weight at the foot of his bed had him sit up and start, wide-eyed. His fingers found silken fur, his ears heard that thump-thump of a half-hearted tail slapping the mattress; one of the dogs.

Then fell the soundest sleep to claim Basch's surrender since his unwilling escape from Landis, so complete that he did not wake when called on the morrow. Twenty years proved a truly exhausting length of time for which to keep running.

.

  



	18. Chapter 18

Basch awoke just shy of midday of that first day to find the house empty of lord and hunters alike.

A brief frantic search provided his clothing, fresh-laundered and folded by his door. He took a towel from that pile and wandered, wrapped in soft white luxury, on a quest for the necessary. The bathroom proved an expansive luxury in limitless white porcelain for all there was but the one, no airship-tight cubicle nor dense Archadian ornamentation. Some contemplation of his reflection in that single, small mirror, the renewed length of hair curling about his ears, had Basch decide not to shave for there seemed small need to do so, here.

He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, to find a pair of Moogles gathering the scattered remnants of an expansive breakfast and a familiar face to greet him. Penelo's smile came bright and bold as the breeze through the wide-open doors, and her confident grace as she rose to embrace him proved her much changed. The girl she had been on their travels together had shown the potential for this, the perfect proportion that he could only feel too tall in her presence. Penelo looked as though this single year had granted her a great gift, for Balfonheim looked to suit her as well as it suited Ffamran. Apart from the usual pleasantries passed, he could think of little to say to her in the wake of all his words the night before. Had he changed as she had? Did she look at him and see only the same hollowness that had abandoned Ashelia's company?

With the taste of cold coffee still in his throat, a diligent quaffing that he would not have to speak, Basch bit into a pastry. The act showered the just-wiped table before him with a rain of sugared flakes, unexpectedly that he paused, aghast, and set down cup and pastry both to sweep that mess together.

"Tell me how you found Archades, Basch. Was it so terrible that you had to quit it this abruptly?"

"Not so terrible," he acknowledged. "Compared to all that passed before, not so terrible."

"So Larsa is well then? Lord Ffamran – well, you can imagine that as soon as I found he was involved in what happened in Archades I quizzed him for all the details. The last word out of that Archadian turmoil was that Larsa had died!"

"Larsa is indeed safe," Basch said, "through no efforts of my own. Likewise it seemed my continued ignorance of Archades was more a liability than a strength. A wise man once said an Empire is sometimes better served by absence than presence."

"…I'd hate for you to feel bad about leaving Larsa after your brother tasked you so. Your brother's duty. I know how seriously you take such things."

Basch found refuge in a second cup of coffee, hot this time and poured from an attendant Moogle's percolator. He could not think what to say. Any word containing what had passed between he and Ffamran seemed vastly inappropriate by the light of day, also considering Vaan's commentary on the reason for Penelo's absence the night before.

"Well," said Penelo, at last, "at least you'll find it exciting here. Ffamran has all sorts of, you know, hunters in and out of the house, and engineers, magecraftsmen. I swear he's trying to filch Montblanc's best to make his very own hunt clan."

Basch smiled at that, and only realized then how uneasily the expression sat on his face. "Ffamran never does a thing unless it is with totality."

The day spiraled onwards, a lazy lethargy for the warmth of that oceanic setting. Penelo proved a diligent guide, showing him about the neighbourhood that he could find his way back from anywhere in Balfonheim by the few buildings that dared broach the skyline. The Balfonheimers encountered greeted her with pleasantries, and she responded with a memory for names and faces that Basch was not surprised to find her presence so welcomed. What did surprise him was how many after Ffamran. Balfonheim, Penelo told him, was much astir for the eccentric Archadian lord building them their very own airship fleet.

On their return to the house they found the hunters preceded them. Still grimed with earth and blood, Ffamran's dogs belled their presence, panting with excitement, that Tello came to the gate to permit them re-entry. Penelo made her way to the basement with a farewell Basch scarcely heard as he followed Tello's too-slow pace across the verandah. In the house, the Moogle ignored him, regarding the muddied multiplicity of footprints across the parlor floor with clear resignation. There was blood in that mud and grass trail. Basch hastened through to find Ffamran in the courtyard, bloodied neck to knee, declaiming vigorously with his gun at a despondent Lucen.

"—Ffamran—"

"Awake at last?" asked he, his argument suspended by a hesitant affection. Basch could not help but to step closer. "I know you did say you wanted to join us but Lucen said he could not wake you."

"A sound sleeper," Lucen said, swift enough it sounded an excuse; Basch's military habits had never permitted him much of sound sleep. Even exhausted, he would have awakened at a touch, if it had come.

"Are you harmed?"

"Only my pride," Ffamran said, surprised. He seemed to realize he wielded his gun inappropriately, and returned it to its holster with an action arrogant in its accuracy. He stripped off a leather glove to touch the stickiness that grimed him. "Ah, I see I'm profoundly bloodied. Not mine, so rest at ease. I had somewhat of a collision with a falling carcass, which Lucen and all his guard failed to warn me of despite the fact that their very presence on the field is there for such a thing. The dogs can only see as high as their horizon; you must, Lucen, must find a way that I can defend from above."

"Possibly an extension of telekinesis," Lucen muttered, "in particular combination with that most preferred of your technicks that you can assess the full field at sporadic intervals rather than but one target. I had, I had thought of this a couple of days ago, Ffamran – I must apologise for your indignity—"

"Shall I tell you where to put your apology, that it comes of some use? Come speak to me when you have a solution."

In the wake of that embarrassment, the hunters collected their accoutraments and departed, lost in deep conversation. Their absence left a great silence in the house, into which Basch could not speak, into which he could not offer any action to assist as Ffamran walked away without further comment. Settled on the lounge below, Basch closed his eyes, let his head loll back, and simply waited. He could hear Ffamran moving about upstairs courtesy of creaking timbers and old pipes; stripping, showering, naked.

For all of that – absence, nudity, proximity – Basch could do nothing.

Ffamran's gift when Basch had expected reproof, reproach, even a kind of retribution: the promise of true liberation. In that concept, Basch could find no relief. He would live this lord's life as an unnecessary limb, for without a call to Ffamran's bed he did not think he could find a place in Ffamran's life.

When Ffamran descended that stair, Basch rose to belatedly recognise such a politeness as wasted. He felt some guilt for allowing his eyes to linger along Ffamran's well-dressed height, for Ffamran could not draw similar comfort from his untouched presence. Basch could not stop that action regardless of guilt, weighing the new tension in Ffamran's flesh he had hardly noticed the night before, the strength there.

"Well," Ffamran said, "ready to go?"

"You have somewhere in mind?"

There was such awkwardness in Ffamran's hesitation considering his confidence about the house, his arrogance with the hunters. Into that hesitation Basch startled: Ffamran was asking him out.

"Only the aerodrome." Ffamran put paid to that last speculation with a crooked smile all the more endearing for its slight misdirection. "I do so like to keep an eye on progress."

This path Ffamran walked a steady pace with his cane rarely applied, a path mapped with use. Only once did he stumble, in the aerodrome itself navigating those multiple levels within to reach his own hangar. He indicated entry with a mocking flourish.

"Next time, you can take the lead."

The expanse of the hanger held not only the daunting shell of that half-clad airship, but also the smell of oil, metal, myst, the crisp breeze rising off the ocean to curl inside. The space itself felt like potential – this, the aerodrome itself, a site ever and always associated with travel. Basch eyed the airship. Moogles and a very rare Hume crawled along the curve with complete disdain for the fall. Of a sudden Basch recognized why Ffamran had brought him here when he had not done the same with his similar endeavor in Archades. Here, in Balfonheim and with only his own decisions for direction, Ffamran sought approbation.

"It is sleek," Basch offered, for he knew not another thing he could say. "It will be quite a beautiful creature, to rival that existing prototype."

"Sleek?" Ffamran smiled. "Tello insists that function does not follow form; apparently the ship's look should be of little concern. You have often told me I am too concerned with appearances."

"Is it military? Or for passenger application? Or cargo?"

"Why," Ffamran said, "here in Balfonheim, should it not span all purposes a pilot would put it to?"

"Pirate, not pilot."

"They still fly, Basch, whatever name you would call them by, and they will fly my ships."

The day wound on; Ffamran's pace slowed even with his cane, for they walked a different way, wandering. Basch hesitated before he offered his arm. Surely Ffamran would simply _ask_ if he wanted such guidance – yet, his willingness to accept once offered said otherwise. There was such distance between them despite that touch of hand on wrist, the Balfonheimers in the street merely glanced once at that proximity to look away quite unconcerned.

They walked to Margrace's residence to find that empty; they walked past shops whose display of wares interested neither of them; they walked what felt twice the length of Balfonheim itself to take tea on the ocean's edge scarce one street from the house, just the pair of them, that Basch again could feel disturbed by the eyes that lingered on their proximity. Here, seated, there was nothing to mark Ffamran as blind, nothing to suggest that perhaps Basch had another purpose but that of wanting Ffamran's company.

"You are quiet," Ffamran said at that last. His long fingers traced the rim of a finely wrought cup, never motionless even when idle.

To that unspoken question Basch could not respond. He had not the words to speak of his expectation. Ffamran had said he would wait, _all my life_ , and it had not taken nearly so long for Basch to quit Archades. Here, though, looking at Ffamran's vibrancy, the sunkissed skin and hair, Basch wondered how much he was needed _here_.

Ffamran's hands, toying with that cup, were much different to how they had been in Archades. Toughened, like the man. Nicks and cuts striped his knuckles, the dark residue of recoiled shot smudging the skin, and that skin so much tanned that the hair across the back was almost blonde with the sun. A plaited twist of woven leather hung loose about the bone of that elegant wrist, another item that Ffamran toyed with once bored with the feel of the cup. Tendon and muscle flexed as Ffamran moved his fingers, that Basch wanted to push up that sleeve and feel the tense forearm beneath. Whatever this life Ffamran had pieced together, it was clearly lacking that leisure of the one he had led in Archades, the vulnerability. If nothing else, sighting Ffamran's engagement the night before could only gift further clarity to the fact Ffamran did not need Basch's presence.

"I was thinking of Vaan. Of Penelo. Did you accept responsibility for their wellbeing due to my association with them, or are they truly showing such promise as pilots?"

"They do well enough," Ffamran said, "and Margrace and Fran both recommended them at a time I needed a pilot whose dedication to my cause and external silence I could guarantee. They seemed ideal for their need and youth make them flexible to the divergence in airship design that an established pilot would disdain. You think yourself of much importance if you assume my every decision is based about your tale. Remember," Ffamran hesitated then, to curl his fingers closed, "I had no concept you would seek me out so forgive me if I seem somewhat at a loss as to what to do with you."

"I expected," Basch paused, and said again, "I intended my life here to be bound by your bedroom walls. Is that not how you dealt with me in Archades? How you dealt with Noah?"

"This is not Archades, Basch, and indeed, I did not treat Noah with such disdain."

Ffamran leaned back in his chair, his shoulders to that magnificent horizon for his lack of concern with the vista. Basch could not find fault with that positioning, for along the ocean's sunlit edge Ffamran stretched until his joints cracked with the effort.

"I thought he loved me," Ffamran said, wistful. "I did not want to speak of this to you, but you gave me your everything last night. After my maiming, I lived only for that pained pleasure for it seemed I would be good for nothing else so sightless, but as surrendered flesh. Now I know all that secret rebellion had been so well controlled by Zargabaath's word that I may as well have issued a public order for performance. Whatever that last, when Noah spoke his stilted and most embarrassed interest, I stopped my searching. When he never before noted me regardless of my sight and sound will, he attended me after my maiming with such dedication that I could not help but feel perhaps I had some worth still. With him, I very nearly had normality. We attended those social circles in Archades I had disdained, and I wanted to shout his name as my love more than my lover. I would not, because he would not let me; anything suggestive I said he turned aside with a comment. It was a year of feeling – almost honest, and able, that I assumed my father's duties in truth for his defection from our house's fiscal wellbeing to Vayne's service."

"Yet you treated me with such disdain."

"I tried to wait," Ffamran said. "I tried, Basch, to know you, to feel more than just nameless hunger for you, for the sake of your brother's memory. You proved so different to he. It seems strange now that on our first meeting I could assume so blithely that your outward similarity would be enough. But then," Ffamran smiled, pained, "Noah's long absence had left me much in want."

"I wanted you," Basch said, and the words did not seem so strange a second time spoken. "So much so I could not acknowledge the want and made a mockery of your patience in the process. But you – you also made mock of me when I would have waited, when I would have cherished rather than taken your flesh."

"I have passed sleepless nights in memory of that, though not necessarily regretful ones. Such treasures of experience invariably cost more than the initial outlay."

With notable effort, Ffamran slid his hand across the table. Basch regarded that offering and let his hand rest beside rather than atop, the heat of that touch disproportionate for limited connection.

Ffamran continued, his relief so visible that Basch felt shame for delaying his return touch. "This shall be different. To keep you bound within the walls of a bedroom, if it did not prove impossible, Basch, it would break you, make you less. I do not want that of you. I want – I have always wanted a man in my bed, not some halfway creature made less by demand or duty. It has ever disturbed me that my very want comes as an order, that for whoever takes me I can only feel they do _my_ will regardless of the extent of my surrender."

"And now?" Basch asked. "If we must wait."

"And now," Ffamran said, "I intend to get my hair cut, for I have let it grow overlong in my distraction with perfecting this current technick. Tomorrow I will be bound in my study with Lucen for whatever his skill with thaumaturgy he lacks the focus to stay on a single task. Within a week we will be back in the field to test our product. Intermittently I shall venture to the hangar to check progress; the Moogles work almost better unsupervised, but airship engineering has always intrigued me." His sudden grin looked that of a youth, not a man, a sparkling reminder of years passed. "I can very nearly piece together a lateral glossair configuration solely by touch. I had never thought to be able to do such an intricate task again."

"But – what shall I—?"

"Why," Ffamran said, "you may do whatever you want to do. Join me for dinner; meet me for lunch; perhaps you can learn to play some instrument for our listening pleasure. A woodwind, perhaps. I have ever enjoyed the sound of such a thing played well."

That last Basch met with an incredulous look wasted on Ffamran's nonchalance. He could detect no mocking in that expression or tone.

"If you will it."

"Basch," and Ffamran laughed, "I jest. If you will it; do it."

His lids were open that Basch ached for his conflicting fortune, for if Ffamran could have focused that gaze he would have been too perfect for any man's hunger to dare.

"If I will to join you instead," Basch said, "with your technicians or your engineers, your barber or your beauticians, what then?"

"To stand at my shoulder and keep guard?" Ffamran's expression faltered, slid to something unreadable. "If you will it, Basch, but surely you have somewhat better to dedicate your time to?"

"What better dedication than to you?"

Yet at that, Ffamran's gaze faltered and fell from that approximation of sight. Basch did not want to permit him response.

"I have trained young men to fight, Ffamran, I have trained dogs to hunt, I have trained cavalry to ride; I rode to war and administrated such that numbers, itineraries and men all became quite interchangeable in meaning to me. In my rare lassitude I would read, I would seek sleep for my days have ever been wearying; my conversations filled with tired recurrence of war. My life before meeting you was a fraught one and a full, dull one, that your indication I should seek my own want daunts me now as I have not been before. It is only a lord that has the time and resources to pursue his leisure."

The quizzical set of Ffamran's expression made starkly clear that line of a faint scar, vertical and cutting through his left brow. Basch had not noted it before – another new addition that reproached him for the months apart.

"Have you never had a boyhood dream, Basch? A desire to be a great hero, a profound poet, some inventor of devices?"

"Whatever dreams I had were lost when I left Landis. I have had – nothing but the dreams of others since then. Ashelia 's merely the most prominant, Larsa's the most recent, and yours the most provocative."

"Find your dream in your own bed before you seek mine. Every man must have a purpose if he would be a man."

"I do not understand you, Ffamran."

"A good thing, for a great work of art is ever spoiled by total comprehension."

At that Basch snorted, and smiled, and did not laugh; he would not give Ffamran the satisfaction of such.

That mapped the extent of their conversation on the topic of his presence. Ffamran left him alone after that, no request or demand that Basch could do what he willed – yet all he willed, he admitted, was to watch Ffamran. So many aspects to the man Basch had not seen before, or seen instead only glimmers shine through the interdict of Archadian life. Balfonheim's limitless horizon suited Ffamran, though perhaps it was more that anywhere would have suited him more than the overcrowded city of his birth.

Basch filled his time with procuring books, for he had never had the time to so indulge and Ffamran's house was well bare of such things. He slept long and his hair grew longer. The laxness and creaking of his joints in the morning had him take to resumption of his weapons' training with Vaan and Penelo, courtesy of their proximity. His proximity also permitted him to map Ffamran's other preferences, quite aside to the thread count of his bed linen.

Ffamran loved company, for he performed then with his sardonic Archadian bent to belittle those Balfonheimers he decided to befriend. He liked sweetness and disliked the sour, that Basch would bring him tea or coffee laden with sugar yet never milk. He ate rarely for he could not see the hours pass with the sun, but when he did eat it was an amount that daunted even Basch's appetite and wonder at the metabolism of the man. Ffamran slept, wherever and whenever he fell, that Basch could wake in the depths of the night to hear Ffamran still engaged in argument with Lucen in his study, or return from a midday run with the dogs to find Ffamran stretched, full clad and fast asleep on the lounge. Despite Ffamran's oft-sharp words his anger only flared in truth if somewhat in the house's positioning was set awry, that Basch took to assisting the Moogles in straightening everything after the departure of guests. The townhouse outwardly resembled the perfection of a picture.

Between he and Ffamran, no further words were spoken of love, duty or that insatiate want that kept Basch awake, such a silence that Vaan and Penelo both regarded Basch's continued presence with a vague mistrust. Basch could not begrudge them that: Ffamran had won their dedication with such blithe kindnesses Basch wondered if the man even knew how much loyalty his presence provoked.

It was on an occasion when Ffamran entertained, the house full of strangers and, considering Ffamran's fickle friendship, even stranger conversations, that Penelo first looked at Basch as though she found no familiarity in his features. Mildly intoxicated for the providence of Ffamran's wine larder, Basch lingered too close to Ffamran's side though that other did not notice. Regardless the scientific bent of Lucen's current topic, Basch found his usual awkwardness standing attention on Ffamran lost, for there was a suspect safety in being surrounded by these anonymous Balfonheimers.

Basch had too many weeks of sleeping alone behind him now. The fit of Ffamran's waistcoat was a blatant conspiracy with the fall of his trousers, the spice he wore a seduction even without the words to accompany. His longing was writ in his eyes, for as he took Ffamran's hand to wrap about the stem of a wineglass, Basch looked up to find Penelo's wide gaze on them.

Ffamran displayed only an invariable lack of acknowledgement as he paused his dialogue to drink that offering, and in that lapse, Penelo turned away.

Basch abandoned his own glass, again to topple on the uneven pebbles of the court, before he followed where Penelo fled. He caught her in the kitchen, reaching, a hand on her shoulder to pull her to face him. Where he expected to find anger or accusation, instead she stretched her arms about his neck.

"I wondered and wondered," Penelo said, "how you could leave your duty in Archades so easily for this life of Balfonheim leisure. Not because you left, for you've always applied yourself where duty called the loudest, but for the fact that I couldn't see why, here. Has Basch changed so much? Has he become someone quite different to who he was, selfish as though the world had taught him nothing, sponging off some lord from a chance meeting in Archades? But no, no; you're here and exactly where you're supposed to be."

"This is selfish," Basch said, "no shining duty guided me that I can be assured of my right to be here. I am here for my own want."

"For _Ffamran_ , you're here for Ffamran, and I'm so glad you came. It was awful, Basch, watching someone as loving as he slowly kill himself with trying not to care. Everyone loves him, even the people that bitch about him in the bars for taking over Balfonheim and making the industry change so; everyone loves him, even those people he used to bring here to bed with him; Lucen, trying so hard to get Ffamran to see him as worthy. It was Ffamran that refused to accept any of that, Ffamran that turned any suggestion of another's devotion into some dark duty, that I couldn't even bear to be in the house if he called his lovers over because he was so black in the mornings."

"He – " He should not ask, he knew that, but the wine would not accept such restraint. "Does Ffamran, often –"

"I'm not answering that," Penelo said, indignant. "If Ffamran doesn't tell you, well, it's not my right to do that. I thought maybe Archades sent you here as a spy or something – silly, isn't it? As though you could ever be a spy." Penelo patted him on the cheek. "Go back to the party. Ffamran's probably missing you by now."

Basch nodded, obedient, abashed. For a moment he sought his drink before he remembered he had abandoned it outside. No matter, he could get another.

At the door, he paused, turned, growled: " _Lucen?_ "

Penelo tried to push him through the door. "Forget I said that. No one wants to see a fistfight on a night as beautiful as this. Nothing happened but an awful lot of sarcastic flirting. Ffamran doesn't like people out of place."

As the night's brisk cool shocked somewhat of that drunken air from Basch, he was struck at how Penelo's acceptance made starkly clear how much resistance he had expected to find, and had not. Such resistance was internally imposed, a resistance only between he and Ffamran, Basch had not expected. That such resistance took the form of Ffamran's abstinence, Ffamran's desire for everything rather than simply more, Ffamran's respect; Basch could accept such a thing. He had never expected to find possible resistance in the form of a rival, especially not one so irritating as the hunter.

—and that arrogance, Basch decided as he claimed a fresh glass of red wine, was perhaps his own ego at last struggling for rebirth.

The hunter to whom Ffamran dedicated days worth of time was thin enough, pale enough that he belied the appellation of 'hunter' but that Basch had witnessed the man demonstrate such skill at technical knowledge. Technique won over brute force, Lucen had been fond of saying loudly and at length every time Basch had questioned the wisdom of Ffamran ever taking the field. Of a sudden that declamation had a new depth. Not so hidden by the night as he presumed, Basch eyed Lucen over the rim of his glass and only realized the intensity of his focus when Lucen's winding eloquent speech stuttered to the extent Ffamran at last could resume command of the conversation.

Jealousy, Basch found, tasted somewhat of wine.

Lucen had a lilt in his voice, competent knowledge and a persuasive argument; his mellifluous tones could well have been set against Vayne Solidor's own rhetoric. It was not so strange then that he thought he had somewhat of a chance to win Ffamran's want, for Basch knew if he had to win a man by the melodiousness of his voice alone he surely would fail.

The opportunity to isolate Lucen for conversation came sooner than Basch had thought it would, for he had struggled against the call of the wine to think of a way to pull the man to the side and warn him off. Basch watched, eyes narrowed, as the man limped away to find the fence. Basch near touched his lips to the shell of Ffamran's ear when he whispered his like excuses.

"Why are you telling me?" Ffamran asked, astonished, and decidedly not whispering. "Do you think I'll fall over if you're not propping me up from behind? Go take a piss, then. Or did you want me to hold your hand?"

In the wake of that titter of laughter Basch left, flaming and thankful for the dark, to stalk his prey. He caught Lucen turning from the fence, tucking himself away. There was such malice in Lucen's sharp gaze that Basch wondered at his own blindness for not noting it before, for ignoring Vaan's mockery of the man, for not noting how the hunter kept such a desperate ear tuned to Ffamran's presence. Basch opened his mouth to speak, and halted, and for a moment regretted that Margrace was not present for he, surely, would have had some easy solution to such a thing.

"It has been brought to my attention that your presence in Ffamran's company is not strictly professional."

Lucen grimaced. "Does Ffamran's third hound wish solely to bark at me, or to bite?"

"I—" Basch swallowed the anger at that, and sought to smooth his expression. "I wish only to talk."

"If you hit me," Lucen warned, "I'll tell Lord Ffamran his hound is not nearly as well trained as he thought."

"Stop calling me that," Basch growled, "I truly – I wanted only to talk – "

"I can't conceive of why you think you have the right to make sounds in my presence," Lucen said. "You linger in this house even when Ffamran ignores you through the day: so, you warm his bed at night, and I must bear that insult, but do you think he wants you about him all the time for the merits of your conversation? Be off with you and wait somewhere where your scarred face can't insult those of us with vision. I will not waste further words on a murderous, treacherous brute like you."

Lucen sucked in a deep breath and set his shoulders; only then did Basch realize he had moved to block the hunter's retreat.

"Stand down, there's a good dog."

At that, Basch reached to shove the hunter back against the fence, the rage there mirroring his own. He lowered his hands to his side, fists clenched, and fought only for restraint. So much of his duty before had demanded his violence. He had not wanted to bring violence here.

"Yet words never win an argument, Lucen, only demonstration. I recall that phrase as the first pontificating uselessness I ever heard pass your lips. Therefore, sir hunter, let us match blades to determine who possesses the winning argument."

His hands were conveniently located already; Basch applied himself to his belt for it was either that or let his knuckles claim Lucen's sneer.

Even in the dim dark of the garden's corner Basch could see Lucen's eyes widen. As the man hurried away, with startled backwards glances, Basch availed himself of the use of the fence considering his current convenient exposure and congratulated himself on peaceful resolution. When he made his way back to Ffamran's side, he found that company all the more precious for the absence of any of Lucen's tired attendant witticisms.

Come the morrow, Basch lamented that drunken riposte most profoundly for it was what woke him with the horror of recollection. Had he _dared_ —

The very act of sitting sharply upright had the world spin, afflicting him with a stomach the likes of which had him make his uneasy way to the bathroom. The very adolescent nature of that affliction seemed retribution for his renewed adolescence the night before.

Bent over the bathroom's single basin to rinse out his mouth, Basch did not hear the door open for the running water. When he straightened he started to see Ffamran in that mirror, standing behind him. Shirtless and golden, scar-touched skin so close, disheveled in slouched pants that scarce clung to his hips, stubble along his jaw – this was a state most unlike that which the young lord met the outside world.

"Lucen told me about your visual assault, right before he collected his shruken pride and stormed out." Ffamran's voice was still thick with sleep, though his lips quirked. With his eyes closed, he resembled any young man suffering a morning head striving to avoid the bright light. That illusion lasted until he trailed fingertips along the half-height line of tile along the wall, almost visibly counting tiles until he found the centerline of the toilet. "I thought I should inform you that thanks to your exhibitionist urge I'll have to raise his salary or set up some form of official laboratory now, simply to appease the man. My life depends on his skill."

Basch could not look away as Ffamran worked his waistband down the extent necessary for application to that necessary. The slide of fabric bared further scarring, each white line a clear mark of blame for Basch's absence to thicken his remorse; he could not consider that remorse for long, for Ffamran's very dishevelment thickened somewhat else. Even when Basch had shared that fortnight with Ffamran in his summer house, the man had only reluctantly allowed him to see any approximation of unruliness in permitting Basch to shave him. Never, these recent weeks of cohabitation, those weeks back in Archades, never had he let Basch see him so unguarded, so mortal, so unkempt. Ffamran had ever and always hated to appear in any state of vulnerability.

"Would you not rather sit?"

"Do you doubt my aim?" Ffamran asked, over his bare shoulder. "Lend your assistance, if you think me so incapable."

"Not incapable," Basch said. "In fact, you are so capable I wonder if you need to appease Lucen at all. I have only confidence in your own capability in practice that I wonder when you will allow me to witness it."

Still, only silence; Ffamran's shoulders were stiff.

"The swifter your evacuation from my bathroom the sooner such a date will eventuate."

At that came such a welling of fondness Basch could not speak. Ffamran tried, strove for that normality, that intimacy of exposed vulnerability that Basch could not hate him for the ache that mere presentation of his back instigated. The tile kept Basch's bare feet from making much noise that Ffamran started when lips pressed against his shoulder. Basch let that kiss linger too long, too tauntingly long, and stroked the length of his own beard against that smooth skin just to see Ffamran shiver.

"Soon, then." Basch kissed him again, neck this time that Ffamran angled his head with such a familiar motion Basch risked tasting him. His skin was soft with sleep, but still the same remembered taste whatever the sun's new gilded coat. "You may want to raise the lid before you release, my lord."

"Bastard, you would have let me – Get out!"

Grinning for that Ffamran could not see his smirk, Basch slid the door closed behind him with swift motion that Ffamran could know from the sound he had left.

When Basch returned to his room, he found an additional surprise for Tello's third was laying out on the fresh-made bed finery the likes of which he had never scrupled to wear. His roles within both Archades and Rabanastre had kept his formal wear strictly military, and his want had never been for such tailoring. The courtier's garb he had worn on his visits to Ffamran had been regrettably effete in soft silk; this, in stiff brocade and with—that, this was distinctly opposite.

"The master's order," Tello's third said, "kupo! For the great ball."

Still eying the codpiece with patent trepidation, Basch started at the Moogle's last statement. "Uh—"

"For the ball," the Moogle repeated. "In Rabanastre, that great Mooglefriended city to celebrate the final declaration of peace with the presence of all associated dignitaries involved; Emperor of Archades and Queen of Dalmasca; great pirates Margrace and Fran of the Little Bird's flight; Emperor's paper-father and treacherous kingslayer are also invited."

"Ffamran can't be serious in considering –"

"For answers," said the Moogle, firmly, "you will have to ask the master."

By the time Basch dressed, confounded for the fact his entire wardrobe appeared to have been replaced at an expense that would have fed all of Balfonheim's orphans, he made his way downstairs to find the parlor cleared of furniture and Penelo veritably swooning in Ffamran's arms.

"You look nice, Basch." Penelo had to look around Ffamran's arm to see him on the step, for the height difference between lord and dancer was awkward at the least.

"So he should." Ffamran's fingers shifted on Penelo's, his knee moving up for a moment to feel the position of her legs before sliding down again. "I apologise for invading your bedroom, Basch, but I've overheard far too many comments of late that I dress you like a refugee from a broken country. If you would be a part of my household, there is a certain level of pride to be considered. Would you shame me?"

Basch's vague disgruntlement died at the scenario, at the sight. Ffamran immaculate after seeing him so unruly, and Penelo's curves stark against that lean height.

"You could have asked," Basch muttered.

"I know you." Ffamran grinned over his shoulder, directionless. "You would not have agreed until your very shirt would have rotted off your back, and both Vaan and Penelo agreed that if I had but given you the gil to seek your own wardrobe, your sense of style has ever left much to be lamented. I am ready, Penelo."

"You have to stop doing that with your leg," Penelo reprimanded, and freed her hand to slap that knee down. "There must be another way to determine the position of your partner's feet. If you try that on Her Majesty she'll think you're trying to court her, if not worse."

"I'll consider it. In the meanwhile, I am in your hands."

"On my count, my lord –"

The dance was Dalmascan, Basch recognized that on the instant whatever Ffamran's unexpected awkwardness. From the crispness of how the man held himself on the street, it was hard to remember he could not do everything with utter perfection.

Basch sat on the step for all the chairs at been removed, the stiff waist of his trousers cutting that he started to realize how long it had been since an honest fight. The performance before him was almost farcical whatever Penelo's efforts, a blind man too tall for that highly skilled dancer, yet Basch did not look away. Where once Basch had sought to stop any activity that exposed Ffamran's awkwardness, he could only watch now and marvel that Ffamran bore no compunction for allowing him to witness.

"You cannot intend for me to come to Rabanastre with you," Basch said, when Penelo stopped her count to return Ffamran to the centre of the room. "Gabranth has been set at last to the long sleep that he cannot attend, and Basch fon Ronsenburg is a kingslayer still even if his death was but rumored; even if you would have him attend as your—" Basch hesitated— "bodyservant, or bodyguard, whatever you would name it."

"I have received communications from both Queen Ashelia and dedicated little Larsa since you delivered the invitation. It seems that Basch fon Ronsenburg may find himself gifted with a pardon for that misguided murder, for his own dedicated service and protection of Lady Ashelia as she sought to gain her crown. Basch fon Ronsenburg will be a free man, to choose to go where he will, that he is not bound to any man's service for the sake of protection."

Basch was glad then he sat already. "How could _you_ have orchestrated such –yet Ashelia would not have thought to—no, nor Larsa. Zargabaath, perchance?"

"I think," Ffamran said to Penelo, "half my fondness for this man is his forgetfulness."

"Truly, my lord? I never found Basch so forgetful."

"Who else in my employ is so frequent to forget exactly what a Bunansa son can command, with but that minor threat of grounding every airship a-flight?" Ffamran's smile was sly, for all it was misdirected. "If you wish, Sir Basch fon Ronsenburg, I could have the Empire reinstate Ronsenburg in that dissolved republic of Landis that you may have somewhat of a second occasion to which to wear your new garb."

Basch's mouth dried on the instant. "Do not jest."

The expression on that face was a serenity to match that perfect posture. "I do not. If you want such a thing, say the word."

"I cannot – not now, I, this, Ffamran – you cannot gift me a city! This is not a new wardrobe, nor a subject for consideration with a red wine headache the size of the Cataract splitting my skull. This is – what is this, _flippancy_ , that I cannot call it even a suggestion of a gift? Is this a taunt? Or worse, some sop to get me from your house that you can continue without me? I have never wanted such a thing, never hoped for it – Gods, you seek only to turn my world to jagd-born turmoil just when it looked to calm! All I have ever wanted, Ffamran, is within the walls of this very house!"

"Tell me, my lord," Penelo said to Ffamran, "is the second half of your fondness for the man centred about the vastness of his humility?"

"His humility?" Ffamran grinned, and leaned forward to whisper somewhat too loudly: "Have you seen the size of his codpiece?"

"Let's go again, Ffamran." Penelo re-set the man's grip, firmly; Basch determined to name that sudden flush in her cheeks the exertion of the dance. "If you would truly lead, as you are supposed to, you must find a way to avoid the walls and the others in the room."

"Perhaps," Ffamran said, "I will just have to trust you not to run me into the walls."

.

  



	19. Chapter 19

In the end whatever protestation Basch could conceive against his attendance in Rabanastre did not sway Ffamran in the slightest. The only concession he won from Ffamran's carefree stubbornness was that certain accessories intended for Basch's costuming could be left behind.

In a matter of days, Basch led Ffamran down the aisle of his ship to settle the man comfortably before strapping himself into the chair behind Vaan's pilot seat. As that engine surged to life, an unfamiliar softness for the distinct engineering, Basch clung to the arms of that chair and wished he had at least convinced Ffamran that Fran and Margrace could fly them.

"Those pirates are halfway to Rozzaria," Ffamran had replied to that, unaware of Vaan's grinning pride, "no purpose in making them return here simply for us when we have pilots, and an airship of a size and style far more suited to an Emperor's relative than the _Little Bird_."

Belying the arguments on trajectory oft had with Ffamran over supper, Vaan piloted the turbulent route to Archades with ease and fluidity. Penelo took the ship in to dock on Ffamran's request to witness the evolution of her practice with that skill; Basch suspected it was more suspicion of Vaan's skill in such a tight space that had Ffamran so direct.

Basch noted through the bridge's window that an Archadian contingent in surcoats of midnight and gold awaited them - an honour guard, no doubt Zargabaath's consideration. Those soldiers were garbed as Judges and subordinates, at attention and in sharp configuration that Basch could only feel ill at ease for the relative softness of brocade across his shoulders. At the least Ffamran had ensured all Basch's new wardrobe was not ill-suited to the left-hung longsword he wore paired with a dagger on his right side.

The airship hatch opened to that dry, aching heat of Dalmasca. Ffamran inhaled deeply and stated, with an unreadable expression: "I see Vaan got the correct city this time."

Basch's own revelation of return to his once-home did not strike until he stepped out of the confines of the aerodrome to Rabanastre's streets. The sight of it stunned where he had expected nothing: sun-dark faces and sun-bleached stone, that passage of people always angling for the shade rather than the centre of the street, the banners and bunting that splashed colour where the sun would strip it –

Basch caught Ffamran's arm where he would have reached for his cane. "For permitting my return to this, to where I thought I could never again walk, permit me, my lord."

"The Queen waits for us, Basch. Larsa is at her side; Margrace's noble brothers attend her, Ondore of Bhujurba, the Gran Kiltias – a multitude of names so well known they resemble the constellations of the night's sky. Into that I will walk, a man who nearly brought down Archades for the sake of a whim, known by all where all I had ever thought to have was that freedom of an unacknowledged third son. We are flanked by men in my colors; all Rabanastre will see us and know us as we progress to the palace; this is, very nearly, a processional. And for all those eyes, Basch fon Ronsenburg, pardoned kingslayer, for that every thinking creature who sees us will know your name as well as my own, you think to take my arm in your own?"

Basch blinked away the heat in the wake of that monologue. In truth, he had not considered such an act beyond the bounds of his own flesh, for once all concern for appearances lost. "Does it mean so much to you, that you walk on your own?"

"Ashelia is the last," Ffamran replied. "Vossler is dead, that I cannot know him. Vaan, callow words an assurance of his uncaring, Penelo, her perspicacity benevolent; Fran and Margrace ever and always on the side of love over life. Of your companions that so shaped these last years of your life, Ashelia is the last to know me. I would not have her think me—

Ffamran did not speak beyond that. Basch heard the words nevertheless, and lifted Ffamran's hand to set forearm against forearm. Ffamran's grip tightened on his wrist, crimping the fabric there.

"Make haste then," Basch said, "it would not do to have you swoon in the heat, if you are so concerned for appearances."

"I have never swooned in my life."

"I have," Basch admitted. "Three times in the heat of my first summer here; the third time Vossler set the guard to strip me and left me to burn nearly bloody that Dalmasca's sun could not daunt me further."

"…and where did he leave you so swooned and stripped?"

Basch cursed his tongue, for of course Ffamran would be sharp enough to recognize that purpose-left ambiguity. When he replied, "in the great central market of Southgate, if you must know," Ffamran threw back his head to laugh.

Their progress took them the most direct route to the palace's main gate, where an additional Dalmascan guard joined those flanking Archadians. The Dalmascans wore no masks that Basch could see the deliberate blandness of their awareness; achingly, he recognized more than one of those soldiers, men from a life he could no longer think to claim, all a result of assuming Noah's burdens, Noah's betrayal, Noah's duty.

Despite the forewarning those familiar faces gave Basch, he could not have known what sight of Ashelia would do to him. He fought the length of Ivalice to set her back upon this throne, yet in the assumption of Noah's Archadian duty Basch had never seen her triumph. She was glorious so clad, so crowned, a height stretched to suit throne that there was only the slightest hint of hesitance as she rose to her feet. After so much sacrifice in her name, this, at last, felt like recompense.

Basch bowed, to find himself cumbered. He shook free of Ffamran's arm to kneel on the stone at Ashelia's feet and found that sunwarmed for the light that licked through the great windows of the hall. The surroundings were as familiar as his own palm, yet it felt as though he had suddenly been returned full use of a limb that had been severed, a phantom reunion of flesh to city fabric. As Ashelia's beringed fingers touched the crown of his head with queenly benediction, her belled sleeve brushed a cheek wet with startling tears.

"Oh, do get up, Basch," she said, sharp and joyous, "you're no good to anyone on your knees."

"I do beg to differ, your Majesty," Ffamran said, somewhere behind him; Basch hastened to stand before Ffamran's defensive strike could harm to his prior-spoken intention of goodwill.

"My lady." Basch rose, to meet her gaze but for one instant before he dropped his eyes. Any words he could have said to her, to thank her for that pardon seemed as though they would have touched a wound still raw. "I present to you his lordship of Archades, Ffamran Mid Bunansa."

"Quite aside from our correspondence on achieving the liberation of our mutual protector," Ashelia said, "we have heard much of you, Lord Bunansa."

She spoke that name stiffly. Basch remembered of a sudden how much heartache Ffamran's father had caused her, how much of that Bunansa ink was writ stark on Ffamran's features. Basch turned to see if Ffamran had picked up on that hesitant welcome.

Ffamran's eyes were full-open, blazing with reflected sunlight. That expression here was uncanny where the sun's spill had everyone else half-squinting. "No doubt from Larsa," Ffamran said, with a fondness indistinguishable as feigned or other. "The boy never stops nattering. I don't know where he gets it from, frankly."

Ashelia laughed, to cut herself off with wide-eyes and a swift reassertion of propriety. She walked those steps down from the throne to offer her hand; before Basch could speak a warning Ffamran dropped to one knee with a practiced grace and pressed his lips to that royal skin presented.

"We are glad to have you amongst us to herald this occasion of Ivalician peace," Ashelia declared, as Ffamran rose. "Our thanks for your actions in resolving the conflict within our sister city of Archades are no small thing."

"Ah," Ffamran said, and released her hand. "You are most politic in where you apply your gratitude, my queen."

"I understand you are now in residence in Balfonheim."

"Oh yes. Excellent weather, bracing sea breezes, I find it much more suited to my preference than Archades."

"And your flight across the ocean was not turbulent? I do have wondrous awkward memories of taking that flight in the ship of those…pilots of our mutual acquaintance, Margrace and Fran of Balfonheim."

"Turbulence?" Ffamran asked, and exuded innocent charm. "Certainly not in _my_ airship, my lady."

Ashelia did not keep them on display, fortuitously, for whatever the goodwill here Basch felt the awkwardness of his sudden return to that court in Ffamran's distinct company. They were led to a suite alongside Larsa's, the hall teeming with faceless Archadian guards. Basch ordered those guards out of Ffamran's actual rooms, and did not know if their presence within was some attempt at insult for his inability to serve, or an actual concern for Ffamran's safety on this delicate foreign ground. In their absence Basch set himself to ordering the room for Ffamran's preferences, the great windows folded back and tea to brewing as Ffamran curled contemplative in an ancient Archadian armchair. No doubt that latter had been appropriated from Dalmascan treasure coffers for his convenience, with no consideration of the centuries of conflict behind such a possession in a foreign territory.

When Larsa pushed his way, unannounced for the useless guard at the door that Basch made some note to reprimand, Basch could offer no more than a greeting and tea. He left that conversation to Ffamran. He could not risk a pointed question from Larsa's oft inopportune tongue. Zargabaath, also, was at Larsa's back in full armour that Basch could not see that man's expression. Basch had left Archades with, as Larsa had assured him, only best wishes between them, but Basch nevertheless expected to see somewhat of reproach in Zargabaath's gaze.

He served that round of tea and stayed silent as Larsa and Zargabaath continued to question Ffamran's enterprise, for he could offer nothing there. Basch had not known the extent to which an airship could cost. He speculated, as he curled his fingers about that too-weak tea, that he very possibly did not care enough to listen to the rest of the conversation.

Scarce two hours passed before sunset stained the sky vermillion, most of which was consumed in bedecking Ffamran in that layered complexity of Archadian formal wear. The four of them made their way then to the formal chamber in which sat Ashelia. Surprisingly, Basch sighted Margrace at her side standing with his contingent of royal brothers, decidedly uncomfortable that he did not meet Basch's querying gaze. Larsa stepped forward to join that knot of nobility, and Basch led Ffamran to his seat beside Larsa's empty one. He stood behind, shoulder to shoulder with Zargabaath's armoured presence, and watched the ceremony with the perfected grave boredom of a soldier whose expression was always on display.

"I see his lordship let you keep your sword," Zargabaath said, distorted enough in that cased armour that Basch read the most of the mockery from the set of those steel shoulders.

"It was for his sword that I kept him," Ffamran said, without turning. Basch flushed, for surely Zargabaath knew the range of Ffamran's hearing.

"Your silence. This is a momentous occasion."

"Once you see enough of these document signings, Basch," Zargabaath said, "you will know the great extent of momentousness occurs in the alliances formed after the event itself."

"I for one am entirely glad I will see none of these occasions," Ffamran declaimed. "They sound tremendously boring."

"Will you both please hush?" Basch repeated, pained, for by now those dignitaries and diplomats seated nearest to them were beginning to turn.

In the aftermath of that signing they made their way to the celebration below. Larsa hastened from Ashelia's presence to Ffamran's side, a disguised eagerness that made Basch ache for the recognition of a mutual loneliness there. The boy had three brothers, to end with none of them here to grant him approbation in the wake of his greatest of achievements. However familiar Ffamran's sarcastic commentary may have been to Larsa, Basch could read the disappointment in the stiff set of Larsa's shoulders as that unusual pair talked around the treaty and never of. He did not speak to reprimand Ffamran for his avoidance. Larsa had done well, the boy knew that, and Ffamran's approbation would not make it greater, yet to force such a phrase from Ffamran's lips would be meaningless.

Once Larsa had moved on Margrace found his way to where they stood together, sipping wine; the man was blatantly discomforted for his stiff and sparkling Rozzarian dress and bare eyes. "Foolishness," Margrace declared on the heels of his greeting, "such foolishness in the flesh of my brothers that I disdain to consider them made of any substance of mine. Do you know what they proposed this morning, Basch? Do you?"

"Why waste time guessing when you will inevitably tell—"

"Marriage!" Margrace cried. "Of all the things, to suggest to me."

"Your brothers proposed marriage to you?" Ffamran asked. "And you Rozzarians have the gall to mock an Archadian's vice."

"Marriage to Ashelia, of course. Fortunate that Fran waits for me to flee even now to the _Little Bird_ , for some suspicion had me convinced my demonspawn siblings would try to pin me to a duty such as this. Ashelia may have been a friendly comfort in the form of a flirt by the name of Amalia, but can you picture her wed? To _me_?"

"I cannot," Basch admitted.

"I certainly cannot."

"Your humour has devolved in the provinces, Lord Ffamran." Margrace brushed his coat smooth. "Though I am glad to see the pair of you well. I have heard such tales of Ffamran's growing fancy in the hangars of Balfonheim."

"My fancy?" Ffamran said, grinning. "Surely they call her my folly."

"Alas, that is instead what they call Basch. Ffamran's folly. Or do I have them inverted?"

"Let the man decide," Ffamran said, in rare humour. "Which are you, Basch, folly or fancy?"

"I suspect," Basch said, "a fool."

"A quip! You name yourself well." Margrace shouldered him hard enough that Basch braced not to step. "I had to linger to greet you, but I must be gone before another Margrace thinks to use my name as a further anchor for Dalmasca's wayward women. Ffamran Mid, I give you warning. Rumour has it Ashelia is in a marrying mood and however inconceivable such a thing may seem, you are the only other bachelor present of a sufficient age and ancestry to draw her court's interest."

"Intriguing. Is she beautiful?"

"What does that matter?" Basch asked, astounded.

"Ah, well," Ffamran failed to quite restrain his smile, "Dalmasca's bloodline has strong links with Bhujerba, and thus the mines in Bhujerba, which would grant me access to the fuel tapped within Lhusu. Do you know the extent of Ivalician monopoly I could control if I did not have to surrender profits to Ondore for the stones I set in my airships?"

"Some matter for consideration," Margrace said, and gave a grin that Basch supposed was intended to look commiserating and instead looked a leer. "And having set the Dalmascan coeurl amongst you helpless bunnies, now I must fly. In Balfonheim, gentlemen: I will see you when you return there. Please, pass my congratulations to Larsa."

In the wake of Margrace's sudden departure Basch flagged a passing servant to exchange empty glasses for full. He held the glass for Ffamran to wrap his hand about the stem. "I had not thought to congratulate Larsa," Ffamran said into Basch's silence. "He has worked most devoutly for this Ivalician peace, has he not?"

"He took arms against his brother for the sake of Ivalice, the faceless multitude that maligns him or will never know him. It was not an easy decision for the boy. At the last, Noah died with his sword aligned with mine that I can offer no comfort to Larsa for his decision."

"We are all most bound by our brothers before us." Ffamran shifted, uncomfortable. He twirled his wine glass so Basch marveled that he never tilted it to the extent that it spilled. "Will you take me to Larsa? I must amend my silence on the matter."

With Ffamran's fingers a delicate touch on his shoulder, Basch led the man across the room and around the dance floor to avoid disrupting the formality of pose therein. He found Larsa in Ashelia's company as well as that of a few other Dalmascan lords. After introducing Ffamran, he stepped to the side and behind that he was not an obstruction.

"I do apologise for my interruption," Ffarman said, after the vague murmurs of greeting subsided, "but I had just realized with a half day of such pleasantries I had yet to offer my congratulations to the dedicated parties on the achievement of such widespread peace. Astounding that it was the youth of Ivalice that achieved this where all older brothers could not."

Basch saw Larsa's flush where Ffamran could not, the way the boy buried his face in his glass – of water? Ashelia stepped into that verbal breech, not quite deftly.

"You speak as one much aged beyond your evident years, my lord. I would place you closer to my own generation than to, say, Basch's."

"I have a maturity beyond my years, my Queen," Ffamran said. "Even if I must admit it all fell upon me over these last few months. Basch's expansive sense of duty has rubbed off on me somewhat, if you can forgive the colloquialism."

"Ah," Ashelia said, with a faint smile, "Lord Ffamran, Larsa and I are both experienced of the same occurrence here. In this company, you are decidedly not alone."

Basch was thankful then for his beard, for it left considerably less skin exposed for that flush. Ffamran held out his glass and, well familiar with this arrogance, Basch moved to catch it. Ashelia's puzzled gaze flicked to follow that motion.

Ffamran bowed at the waist, and held out his hand. "Will you dance, my Queen?"

"My lord," she said, "I had not thought you—I –but of course. I must warn I am not skilled at such a thing, my education in courtly arts was interrupted by the war."

"If you please," Ffamran said as she wrapped her fingers about his, "lead the way, and we shall confound every dignitary with our mutual gracelessness such that it must become a new rousing fashion for lords and ladies alike to fall on their faces."

Only when Basch saw the dumbfounded expression not quite disguised on Larsa's fresh cheeks did he realize his own expression mimicked the same. He drained his glass, and then Ffamran's, to set them aside; he watched.

The height discrepancy between them, Archadian lord and Dalmascan queen, was not nearly so marked as it had been between Ffamran and Penelo. Basch could see the angle of Ashelia's chin, upwards as though she sought Ffamran's blank gaze, the softness in her own eyes for she had ever found much comfort in a masculine touch. Ffamran's posture held stiff, rigid, Ashelia's own a matching precision. They were not quite graceless together, but not fluid for all that Basch had seen the both of them move with elegance.

This was not a battlefield, Basch realized: both Ffamran and Ashelia found the extent of their grace out there and not on this much-polished marble. Basch could only wonder at what would have been had they met on a battlefield instead of in a ballroom. Ffamran's blithe commentary on Ashelia's want for a husband maybe have been a jest, but still, in each other's arms there was a strange symmetry in their motion, in Ashelia's gentle interdict that kept Ffamran close. Lord and Queen looked a picture together of some romantic tale. Basch felt some wistfulness then, for such a story could never belong to him.

When the musicians ceased, lord and queen parted. Ffamran bowed with deep Dalmascan formality to meet Ashelia's shallow Archadian curtsey. Ashelia turned then with her usual self-focus to greet another dignitary that passed, a conversation that drew her onwards and away. The chaos as couples split, to walk multifarious routes across that ballroom floor, left Ffamran standing awkward and alone amidst a pattern of motion he could by no means read.

"I must – excuse me, Larsa—your Excellency—"

Basch halted at the edge of that ballroom floor, for Ffamran walked through that crowd, confident and alone. His head was tilted slightly, eyes closed and contemplative, but surely he could not hear his way against the random babble murmur of the crowd. He had his fingertips stretched before him in that familiar mannerism to avoid contact, but he never had need to touch another to know of their presence for he stepped clearly around them. His pace was easy, yet not his usual inching slow one when he walked alone, that Basch flinched on Ffamran's behalf for that impending, never-occurring collision.

Ffamran navigated that chaos, alone, and with unerring accuracy to where Basch waited.

"My lord—"

"I had the technicians deconstruct Libra," Ffamran explained, "with a realignment of intent; an overlay of Sight Unseeing that I could target a lifeform but with Libra's omniscience that entire room could become a map of moving nodes. It took considerable practice to translate that scaleless, depthless mental image into a true awareness of the space about me, but only as much practice as it took to learn to dance after nigh a decade without." An expression crossed his face then, almost certainly fondness. "But finding my way directly to you, that is an especial skill."

"My lord," Basch reached, to claim, "I want to kiss you."

"You can't here."

"Whyever not?" Basch asked; he heard the depth of his own voice as though it was a stranger's. "Did you propose to Ashelia then, during your dance?"

"Gods forbid," Ffamran laughed, "the woman's all sharp edges, Basch, and I have never been so fond of bloodying my fingers. No, I suggested she visit in Balfonheim that I show her the color of my intentions with the prototype airship. Rabanastre is ideally located as a trader's nation hub, and if, through me, she could form concrete alliance with Balfonheim's pirates to offer Rabanastre as a potential, taxable safe harbor, well – the result could swell Dalmasca's coffers to an extent—"

Ffamran halted, for Basch pulled him close enough then that Ffamran leaned back.

"You only suggested that in want for the depths of her Uncle Ondore's mines."

"How amusing: almost to the word what Queen Ashelia said." Ffamran whispered the words for Basch had cupped his chin. His long lashes curled on his cheeks, eyelids creased with a tightness to match the frownline between his brows, that stark white streak of a scar to the left. "She then said she would be most gladdened to sight Balfonheim's glorious vistas at my convenience, for ever since she was a child she has always wanted her very own airship fleet. Basch, release me, you can't do this—"

Yet Basch did, regardless, chaste to spite the urge that drove him that he did not even dare his tongue. Ffamran's lips trembled.

"Gods, man, people will see."

"Did you not tell me that you wanted to shout that my brother was your love, your lover; whichever, but that you wanted to shout it so the world would know? Call me a fool if that is the word you wish to use, but am I not, now, more than he ever was to you? Are you not, now, more than you ever were?"

"It is not a matter of you in opposition to your brother, Basch. This is a matter of words versus action."

When Basch set his cheek to that smooth one, Ffamran did not pull away.

"Words are one thing," Ffamran added. "Providing a visual is another matter entirely."

"No one looks at our proximity," Basch said, and could not care for the lie Ffamran could never call, "and I am not so comfortable with words as Noah was. If you insist on continuing to talk, I will kiss you again for in my experience there is no other way to silence you. The only words I will hear from you are 'yes' and 'now'."

"Nevertheless," Ffamran said, and cleared his throat. He stepped away, forceful enough Basch let his hands drop, reluctant, and did not pursue. "There is Archadian pride to be considered here, Basch, and I would not even let a wife handle me so affectionately in public." As though he sought to soothe the wound from that, he said: "Yes, and soon—"

The rest of that long night stretched to inconceivable lengths that Basch wondered aloud if Ffamran prolonged his circulation solely to irritate that thwarted desire, only to have Ffamran retort that even the crassest of commoners surely should know no one could retreat until the hosting Queen had done so. Fortuitously, Larsa's withdrawal was early for the undeniable matter of that Emperor's youth, and permitted any other Archadians leave to likewise depart before the Dalmascan Queen. Basch would not have known that particular matter of propriety if Zargabaath had not called him briefly from Ffamran's side to tell him thus. Basch left that consult – that approbation – to disengage Ffamran from his current conversation, giving such a swift grateful look over his shoulder that he could hear Zargabaath's snort, resonant in that helm.

When the Archadian guards at the suite closed the doors behind them, Basch found himself hesitant again even after near carrying a too-slow Ffamran up the stairs. The Archadian guards' presence, so heavily masked: Basch had seen the inside of that mask in Archades and the exterior in Nalbina, and found both faces cruel and blank in equal measure. The Dalmascan design of the room that weighed with full familiarity it felt as though the past few years had never been.

For a long moment Basch looked at Ffamran through eyes full of shadows of his past selves, such a weight of wounding he could not move. Into that frozen moment Ffamran stepped, graceful in the silence of those chambers as he had not been on the ballroom floor. He set his fingers Basch's shoulders, to push, one step at a time, back. Basch's calves hit the edge of that Archadian monstrosity of an armchair. Left no direction in which to turn, Basch sat.

Ffamran was entirely too skilled at the removal of a man's belt that Basch could hardly say a word before he was divested of the thin protection of his trousers. He fought to catch Ffamran's chin, to draw him up from that penitent posture to claim a kiss hardly chaste. When Ffamran bent again, Basch gasped and pushed into that wet warmth; Ffamran made a muffled protest, to speak.

"Wait," he said, tugging at Basch's hips, "sit forward—"

"Will you undress?" Basch interrupted, wistful where he had expected to hear only hoarse desire. "I would see you, if you permit."

At that Ffamran rose, to unlace, unlock, unbuckle and unbutton his multiple layers of finery so slowly Basch cursed him, aching. That must have had some effect, for only then did Ffamran kick free of his trousers, throwing vest and shirt and coat to crumple in a location quite unheeded. Basch regarded that presentation, the arching, firm prick that Ffamran sadly ignored, the press of hipbones against skin, the long lines of new muscle along thighs, stomach, bicep, the tense strength of those forearms. Basch looked until his eyes, at least, were much satisfied, yet for that satiation the rest of him _burned_.

Ffamran did not permit him speech. The flexing plane of his shoulders as he bent was well beyond the beauty of what Basch remembered. He kept his hands tight on the arms of the chair. He could not risk touching, shoulder or hair, lest desire make of this offering a matter of familiar force. Ffamran's rhythm was long and slow and lavish, and should be, should have been enough.

When at last Ffamran drew Basch beyond all restraint, to set his hand on that short crop, Basch surprised himself for the moan that touch drew from Ffamran had Basch pull instead of push, to lift Ffamran's lips again to his own.

They kissed; _he_ kissed for Ffamran's surprise kept him from responding; Basch kissed and chased that glimmer of his own taste, and only when Basch was empty of breath could Ffamran pull away to apply himself again. Deeper this time, his fingers tight about the base to tilt to a preferable angle; so deep then that Basch felt Ffamran's throat flinch about him and had to pull the man up from that intolerance, away – to kiss, tongue against tongue sourcing teeth, lips, throat, taste, a kiss deep enough then that Ffamran sighed into him.

That, a rhythm broken and more magnificent for the breaking, continued. Basch watched Ffamran span his depth, half-lidded eyes streaming, until Basch could not tolerate that attempt. He drew Ffamran up to kiss, tasting more every time, until Ffamran could not tolerate that affection. Basch's release came entirely unexpected for he had been brought to the brink so many a time that he had forgotten his own limits.

Ffamran's throat worked under Basch's fingers as he lingered, to swallow. Basch startled to realize he had at some point circled that graceful throat. When Ffamran made as if to rock back, to move away, Basch made use of his grip to take that reluctance and draw it towards him, onto him, Ffamran's bare form full against his clothed one. He almost had to fight to take Ffamran's lips again, his hand unforgiving against Ffamran's nape.

Ffamran made a small sound into Basch's mouth, one of such sorrow Basch released him, startled.

"You have undone me," Ffamran said, his voice not his own.

Such a strange, cherished truth was that, for across Basch's brocaded finery that spend glimmered, Ffamran's tenseness visibly slack with his own relief. It was not just a kiss that could have broken all Ffamran's close-kept guard, for Basch knew his skill not one of which to speak, yet there was promise in that kiss that Basch suspected Ffamran could not quite consider, even if his flesh thought otherwise.

For the sake of clarity then: actions ever of greater persuasion that words. Basch took Ffamran's hand into his own, to touch their paired fingers to that warm spill, to bring both fingers to his own lips to taste.

The open ache on Ffamran's face at that act was such that Basch felt his longing stir again, and in his satiation knew that longing could not be entirely physical.

Ffamran stood then, and ran his palms along his sides as though wiping himself dry. The feel of his own flesh set his expression into that familiar trepidation, that self-turned guilt that Basch rose to forbid that retreat with his embrace.

"I wanted – this – I'm somewhat drunk, Basch, I did not want to do this here, I wanted – I – have not the words to explain what I wanted."

Basch spoke into Ffamran's shoulder. "Perhaps that means you want for nothing."

"You have kept such dedicated attendance all evening. Your presence has eased me so, I—It cannot be a natural thing, that your servitude has me fall between your knees to have my way with you."

"I can't pretend to know what you want, Ffamran. Tell me."

"I do not want you to be my servant. I want to give you back your freedoms, for the matter of my birth and my blinding I can have none."

"Yet what about what I want," Basch asked, "all I have ever wanted, what you give me, Ffamran, love and lord. How can you reject everything that I have ever sought, and found, in your flesh?"

"But, Basch—"

"You will not say another word. You will get into the bed that is five paces behind you, and I will lie beside you, and you will not say another word until the Dalmascan sun and the morning dust wakes us."

It was not a surprise that Ffamran obeyed, but quite surprising that he did so silently. Basch rid himself of his soiled, stiff brocade, the shirt beneath, his constricting trousers, and made a single pass about the room to dim the lights and check the bar on the door. The sheets were light linen and cool, that Basch curled about Ffamran's form unacknowledged but for Ffamran's slight accommodating shift of his knees.

Basch should have left to take to his own allocated bed, set in that servant's adjoining room, yet now he was here he would not retreat for fear that Ffamran's fickle temper would shift before the sun could rise.

When Basch awoke he found no recollection of sleep, that he half-panicked to also find the bed beside him empty for the anxiety of his last thought.

Dawn stained the sky outside that open window with streaks of white and grey, an inverse brilliance to the fire of the Dalmascan setting sun. It was the sound of water falling – and Basch's subsequent bewilderment for he could see no rain – that reasserted normality. It was dawn, he had slept so soundly he could not recall dreaming, and Ffamran had risen and taken himself to the shower.

Only then did Basch stir, at ease enough that all he did was turn to face to the adjoining bathroom chamber and settle more heavily into the bed. How Ffamran had felt his way about a strange Dalmascan bathroom Basch did not know and felt some guilt for his continued lassitude, yet a tap was a tap, and Ffamran was not so blind he would have scorched himself for want of a warning.

Into that cold grey light of morning Ffamran walked, wet and nude, one palm stripping water from his flanks as the other trailed along the walls. Basch kept his breath regular, for Ffamran evidently thought him yet asleep that he did not call for attendance. Basch watched as the man felt his way about the room to find the spread of clothing Basch had laid out the day before. He could read the consideration of Ffamran's face as he felt that garb there, fingering seam and fabric, finding stocking and underwear, as though touch could discern for him the color therein.

Ffamran sat, feeling the position of the chair behind him before he did so; he rolled on each sock with such care for the alignment of the seam that Basch could not keep silent that turgid morning necessity.

"You're awake," Ffamran said, pausing, "you could have said something, I was being so quiet for your sake." His lips quirked. "You do so seem to want my silence."

"Not your silence, now," Basch said, thick and verbally also as he threw back that light sheet, "though I am in some want for your attendance."

Yet when Ffamran returned to that bed, by a tortuously long route that he did not have to cross the unknown furnished realm, Basch could not tolerate his touch for wanting to touch. Basch allowed the kiss on his chest, the one on his navel, and stopped Ffamran when he made as though to move lower.

"Why is that always your first response?"

"Shall I bend instead?"

"Why is that always your second?"

Ffamran rolled to the side, his shoulder to Basch's. "If you must know, I enjoy the first because I can read you. Every gasp comes as a flicker of motion; every moan as a pulse; every curse as sharp salt. Taste and sound and touch, all together. Why should I not prefer such a thing, that it makes your want so evident to me?"

"And the other?"

Ffamran smiled at the ceiling, pained. "You know that already. Sensation, Basch. I am hungry for any sensation that over-much is preferable to not enough. It reminds me that I am real and not some half-drowned dream lost in the dark."

Basch trailed his fingertips across that glimmering hint of Ffamran's beard, red-gold sandpaper in the slow-swelling dawn light; he caressed the faint, linear scar across Ffamran's brow, a raised seam; he discovered, kissed, cherished the hollow nick along Ffamran's jaw he had not noted before. The shift of the mattress gave Basch's motion away, for Ffamran spread his legs without preamble, holding his knees open, and looked away to hide his face in his shoulder.

Ffamran's preference, Basch knew, had never been to face forward, and perhaps it was that that had him kneel to the side instead of atop, to stroke fingertips along Ffamran's slow-stirring length, through dark curls, about and below. There was such tension about the first joint of his finger, resistance, that he used regrettable force to find the layered softness beyond. Ffamran made some small noise of admittance, a pleasured sound, and let one leg fall to the side.

Hesitant at first to stroke much deeper, Ffamran's visible responsiveness had Basch forget himself, and forget the act beyond that it generated such a response. It did not take much motion then, toying with that resistance, the openness beyond, before Ffamran arched into his hand. All concern for concealing his expression was lost as Ffamran threw back his head and pressed, moving when Basch would pause. Basch could not contain his own breath, but well contained the rest that he merely watched to find such satisfaction in that performance, for him, all for him. Ffamran's rhythm was desperate for his own long months of restraint with this act, one hand seeking for Basch's wrist—

"More—"

Basch closed Ffamran's hand instead about that untended lust between them. "Attend yourself before you air concern with my actions."

The shock on Ffamran's face was enough to have Basch laugh, and then laugh for the fact that he could laugh for Ffamran veritably squirmed at that instruction. He thrust, short and sharp, to watch Ffamran's hand speed—

"Slow," Basch said, to see if Ffamran would. "Long and slow, my lord, long and slow and hard, and do not deviate."

—and Ffamran whined, yet obeyed. Long fingers move along that curve, a captivating motion that Basch was entirely unaware of the vigor with which he moved his own hand until Ffamran started to curse the burn, gasping, twitching. A shiver rippled along Ffamran's thighs, his stomach, a quaver in his voice when he begged, he begged–

"More," Ffamran said, only his shoulders and heels still on that mattress, "even just another, just one more."

"Clench instead," Basch dared, oh, he dared, "tighter than that, my lord, or you'll have a torment of an old age awaiting you," and he could not comprehend his daring but that this, here, he could at last sunder from everything past; he would not be bound by old bonds, another's bonds again, "tighter, Ffamran," and such strain wrote itself on Ffamran's features Basch felt some small shame quite crippled by the vastness of his own undeniable desire, "yes, good—"

All past failure was forgiven him, and pardoned, he had from all his acts achieved atonement, been gifted such approbation; Basch's own curse of flawed service ended by his own hand, his own choice. His only fear, that this love would prove as some fragile fluttering insect, beautiful as it flew and fated to die.

Ffamran's lips parted, trembling – yet Ffamran was not so fragile as some winged insect.

"If you ask me for more again I'll not stop until you close about my wrist."

"Gods," said stark with such a twist of fear amidst that desire, "you mean that."

Basch could see the shape of the word unsaid on Ffamran's lips, _more_ ; still Ffamran's hand did not speed along his length beyond that rhythm Basch permitted him.

"Oh gods, Basch, there, soon, there—"

Then Basch did not thrust, but merely moved, fingertip against that heated resistance until Ffamran dissolved into arching, soundless release. The motion of Ffamran's wrist still did not speed through it. A truly elongated orgasm contorted the man's expression, long, aching seconds of lashed spill to match every pull. Basch coaxed each ripple to full torment, and did not withdraw until Ffamran's hips lowered, to rest.

"I suspect I need another shower," Ffamran said, shaken. "For I could not find a towel before regardless of where I sought."

"Not yet, or are you so selfish still? Lift your legs again."

"Let me turn—"

"No."

Basch leaned between those welcoming thighs. He rubbed his cheek against Ffamran's, pressed his length into the spill between them. "One finger, and it was enough."

"I am well aware of that." Ffamran's lip curled, that Basch licked at the vague sneer until it dissolved into a smirk. "I'm not that old, to forget so swiftly."

Such was the rigid extent of his lust Basch did not need his hand to find position, merely twisting his hips until Ffamran groaned, and flexed, to yelp—

"Shall I stop?"

"It took you such a long time to get started I thought you never would. Just—" Ffamran shrugged, and twisted, as though embarrassed, "sensitive. Be gentle."

"Nothing would please me more."

The close of Rabanastran celebrations required some formal attendance on the steps of the palace, some great wordy farewell. Basch left Ffamran in Larsa's company and Zargabaath's charge for that great platitudinous awkwardness and instead marshaled the attendant Archadian cohort to escort them to the aerodrome, and convey Ffamran's luggage besides.

On arrival Basch sighted Vaan sitting on the edge of the ship's open hatch, nursing what appeared to be a head from the commoners' great celebrations of the evening before. It startled Basch to see Penelo weaving down that ramp to join him, looking similarly worse for wear. It was not so much her femininity that so shocked him for that state, but rather that he had never expected Penelo to descend so.

Basch spoke a curt command. The guard about them halted and parted to let him lead Ffamran to the fore. Vaan looked up to greet that black and gold clad expanse of armored troops, flinching for the sun's glare on all that armor. Penelo tried to smile at Basch, blanched, and raced inside the ship with her hands pressed to her lips.

"Our pilots do not look terribly shipshape, Ffamran."

"Are they injured?"

"Self-induced, that they have no sympathy from me. Evidently Rabanastre's common folk celebrate with much greater abandon than nobility can."

"It wasn't that," Vaan protested, weaving as he stood. "It was Margrace!"

The four of them sat about the ship's narrow mess table to discuss. With some prodding for Vaan's lack of focus, the story unraveled. Margrace fled his brothers' watch in the palace, and found his way to the great streetwide celebration. The trappings of his unwanted nobility were stripped and sold, a heritage dagger, Vaan said, a named sword of some note, added Penelo; jewels that no sane person would have garbed a sky pirate in regardless of the name of his birth. For the quick sale of those Margrace set up his own great celebration, Vaan said with a vague grin, for he had managed to call nearly every street dancer and bell girl alike to perform where he willed it. It was that, Penelo explained, that first drew Rabanastre's guard to notice the illicit focus of dancerly duty, to attempt to break up that conglomeration that the rest of Rabanastre could be served.

"I don't know what madness possessed him," Penelo said, muffled for she nursed her head on her forearms, "but at the sight of the guards who, I think, only wanted to give reprimand, Margrace started shrieking that no one would ever pin him down, that he was born to fly. He ripped off his shirt, he leapt up on a table in the Sandsea and jumped for the chandelier."

"We were well on the way to finishing the Sandsea's stock by then," Vaan said. "He missed. I think he broke a leg, because he couldn't stand. But then again, he couldn't stand before he jumped either."

Basch could not risk a glance at Ffamran's mirth, for fear he would starting laughing also. "Where was Fran?"

"That's the thing," Penelo said, "I think that was what set him off with the dancing girls. He came down from the palace to find her, well, already entertained. He shouldn't have asked her to stay by the ship while he went up to the palace party. Even I wouldn't have waited for that."

"And then?" Ffamran asked. "Broken legged and bereft of shirt and girl?"

"The guards took him away," Vaan said. "And we all followed, and somewhere along the way broken bottles started to fly, and there was, kind of, a little bit of a riot."

"How do you have a little bit of a riot, Vaan?" Basch said, exasperated.

Ffaman stirred. "Must everything be all the way or nothing at all with you, Basch?"

"It was a little bit of a riot, mostly good fun." Penelo raised her head, to reveal bleary eyes and an unfocused gaze to rival Ffamran's. "Then the Rozzarians came down to Southgate, and with Margrace held—"

"—being carried," Vaan said, "upside down, actually, and I think by then he had this great rip across the arse of his trousers, I told him to never wear silk in a brawl—"

"—being held by Dalmascan guards, things got very messy."

Basch spoke swiftly to avoid the witticism he could see forming on Ffamran's lips. "So where is Margrace now?"

"Well, the Rozzarians took him back to their ship, it being diplomatic territory or something. They impounded the Little Bird, though; the last we saw they were forbidding Fran entry, and Nono was composing some great epic alphabetic saga as to the deviant bastardry of all Rozzarians. We haven't heard anything of Margrace since."

"You think they might force him to marry Ashelia?" Ffamran asked, still grinning. "Seeing as he can't run any more?"

Basch found Vaan and Penelo's eyes on him, Ffamran's attention in the casual stretch of his arm across Basch's shoulders. He blinked, taken aback, both by that touch and the sudden focus.

"What do I know of contemporary politics? Surely any such marriage would be opposed by Archades as shifting the balance of power."

"Ashelia likes Al-Cid," Penelo murmured. "Not just for his assistance in regaining her crown. She also tends to get what she wants from Archades. Word on the street has it the Margrace dynasty wants the match too."

"Well, what do we do, Basch? Should we go rescue him?" Vaan asked.

"Why are you all looking at me?" Basch said, curt. "I am not one to leap to the defense of every helpless noble alive."

Basch thought it most unfair they all laughed then, and felt some small vengeance for the fact that Vaan and Penelo winced, much pained.

"Margrace – Al-Cid is able and adept at getting himself into and out of trouble, when in his right mind and when not. I have no desire to clean up his mess. You two need to clean yourselves up that you can fly Ffamran home, and that should be your only concern. Margrace is in no danger, Ashelia will permit no fratricide on her territory, and as to marriage, well, that has never hurt any a man."

"—much," Ffamran appended. "If I may make a suggestion though, Basch, I would search out Fran and Nono and ascertain their wellbeing. At the least, we can offer them a ride to Balfonheim in exchange for Fran's piloting abilities. The children can nurse their hangovers in bed rather than suffer that vile bathroom torment of drinking a remedy to purge."

"Of course, my lord. A worthwhile idea, though you are too kind to spare the children so."

Penelo and Vaan merely stared, such twinned smirking expressions that Basch scowled.

"Since when," Vaan said, "did you two, you know, care?"

"Fran and Nono roomed in Moogletown," Penelo said, hastily, that Basch sought to smooth his frown. "The Sandsea's a little bit –well, it's very scorched."

He did not depart in pursuit of those shipless pirates, nor think to take Ffamran through another city's streets touched by anything resembling a riot. Instead Basch ordered the Archadian guard to seek out Fran and Nono. He stressed they were to offer an invitation, not an order, and with Ffamran's word for guidance he set about the ship's engine room ensuring they were ready for departure.

It was lunchtime when Fran and Nono made their way to the ship. Basch opened his mouth to offer commiserations regarding Margrace, only to have Ffamran prod him to silence. The man spoke only of Balfonheim and the ship, and his gratitude for Fran and Nono's beneficence, and distinctly said nothing of Margrace.

"How would you feel," Ffamran murmured, in response to Basch's quiet query, "to be so reminded of your own guilt in your lover's loss?"

That had Basch keep a much closer watch on his own tongue as they flew, disrupted only once by Penelo's rapid stagger down the hall for the necessary.

When the ship was well aloft, stable on the greater current of air that circled this high, Nono left to regard the engine, greatly enthused at such a thing. Ffamran rose to take that navigator's seat, to speak to Fran regarding the further innovation he placed in that developed prototype back in Balfonheim.

"You've never named it," Basch said, sudden. "The ship. Neither this nor her twin at Balfonheim."

"I am not one for naming things," Ffamran said, swiveling that chair to face Basch. "Not my dogs, for all they act as left and right eye a-field. Nor my guns, my garb, my house, whatever contemporary trend there is for such provident naming."

"Whyever not?"

Ffamran smiled, and spun. "It did ever seem somewhat of a child's game, this naming of things. Perhaps I filled my quota of naming when I still saw a starred sky. When I kept company with the astrologers I exerted the limits of my creativity dreaming up names for the stars we charted."

"A ship should be named," Fran said, "that when you must curse it, your curse does not go astray."

"Much too late for this ship." Ffamran's smile stretched to a grin. "The curse meant for her already hit me. But I will think on it for the other, at least."

There was something in their positioning, Ffamran beside Fran there, the dash and horizon spread equally before them, that had Basch hurt. Guilt for a lover's loss, Ffamran had said: ah, well, Basch knew his guilt now, named it as felt for Ffamran's blindness, not for Ffamran's love.

Basch bore no responsibility for that particular curse, yet if Ffamran had not been blind – if, if, Basch doubted any of this could have lasted between them, for Ffamran's nature was not one of stasis. Basch guilt was for the fact he wanted to thank the ship's supposed curse for claiming Ffamran's sight.

Fran said it for him instead, so deft and sparing where Basch would have required a month's worth of apology to take the sting from the words.

"Yet a curse for one proves benediction for another."

Ffamran stilled, even his face expressionless that Basch realized how truly rare it was for the man to be motionless. The silence tensioned, a string to be plucked to sound, or break.

Basch sat forward, and hesitated.

"You have a thought?" Ffamran said, ever attuned to the shift of the air.

"Name her after something astral, Ffaman. In remembrance."

"In sad memoriam," Ffamran asked, "not in commemoration, beloved? I would rather consider the fore rather than the aft; at least in life if not in love."

Basch opened his mouth, caught the flick of Fran's ear, and closed it again. He could not have offered anything worthy of the air required to speak.

"Astral," Ffamran mused.

" _A Stral_ ," Basch said, "for there are the two of them now."

"And Margrace thought to reprimand _me_ for the provincial nature of my humour." Ffamran spun again, contemplative, to stop his motion with a hand stretched to the dash. "Your will, then, Basch. Call her _Strahl_ , 'a' or 'the' dependent on the extent to which her younger sister's potential outstrips hers, and I shall forgive her for taking my sight for she gifts me with freedom. Are you thus content with the naming, beloved?"

"Yes," Basch said.

.

  



	20. Chapter 20

"Three o'clock."

Ffamran extended himself for that one, the butt end of the spear's shaft for he could not have spun to bring the head to bear swift enough. He felt the satisfying solidity as he connected, heard the scatter of pebble as the ball bounced away. The enormity of the pebbled crunch after that, panting and racing and one sole cranky yelp as the dogs fought over that errant target would have been frightening if it were not so familiar.

"Bring it here," Basch called. "Sit. Release."

"Good dog," Ffamran said, grinning, and made the mistake of letting the butt of his spear touch the ground. He flinched, barely getting his arm up in time to deflect that weighted ball cast direct and most unforgiving at his face.

"What did I tell you, Ffamran, _never_ –"

"Yes, I know." Ffamran set himself again after shaking the sting and slobber from his arm, spear at the ready. "I am not a tender young sapling that requires a stake to stand against the breeze."

"Lazy," Basch said, "you're lazy, and languid, and a poser."

"Yet still with far better aim than you."

"From behind, if you please, and at eleven and one quarter."

Ffamran spun to set his back to Basch on the instant of hearing that first command, on the balls of his feet and in direct contradiction for the vertigo that tried to convince him he would fall for that speed of motion; when he heard that second instruction he stretched again, upwards and desperate, and felt the shaft, just, skim the ball's pass.

"Eleven and _one quarter_?"

"You very nearly struck it square," Basch said, ameliorating.

"Regardless, Basch, there's no possible way that your eye and arm's accuracy can distinguish between 'eleven and one quarter' and 'eleven'."

"Thus explain: why did you miss if there could be no difference?"

"I thought you said I very nearly struck it square."

"Very nearly is not enough. If you would truly fight without your thaumaturgy, Ffamran, you cannot 'very nearly' strike a beast."

"A whole week of this." Ffamran faced the direction of Basch's voice, and deliberately planted the butt of that spear. The tree did not offer enough shade. Sweat had set the leather about his shoulders, his arms, between his thighs chafing with such irritation he would have preferred to strip, and risk the bruises from acting as Basch's target. "You have me deflect and dodge, and never thrust. Do you intend I should only kill a beast by wearing it to exhaustion with evasion?"

"In good time—"

"In good time, it's been a _week_ —"

"Will you not trust me? Of anything I know, I know how to instruct a man at arms."

"Balls, Basch! If I wanted to play with balls I would offer you a glass of wine and indulge myself in the shade!"

Basch snorted; Ffamran could hear the sound as he threw his current ball into the air and caught it again, rhythmic. "Small wonder you left your schooling early, Ffamran, with such an attitude."

With no more warning than that, Basch hurled that weighted ball.

Ffamran was mostly expecting such an action; he measured the soft grunt of effort, the snap and crack of Basch's shoulder joint, that bare sound of the disturbance of air, and he mapped the arc – right at _his_ balls, the bastard – with scarce enough time to step to the side and spin that spear, and put his shoulders, hips, everything full into that swing—

The dogs whined, barked, racing in circles for their inability to chase until Basch called them to sit.

"I'm not climbing the fence again," Basch said, "and Tello's downright refused."

Ffamran would not conceal his grin. "Go by the front door then to ask for your balls back, however strange such a direct and directly accommodated approach may seem to a back door man such as yourself."

" I'll not forgive that you did that deliberately, Ffamran." Basch spoke with such a measured taunt in his voice Ffamran could understand why the man had never made many friends through all his years of military instruction. "If you must know all my thoughts, what you are learning and have learned this last week is a set of skills to clarify your awareness of the air about your own skin, whilst simultaneously teaching you to handle that spear shaft as deftly as though it were your own. Next week, we will continue with this exercise but I will correct all that error that shows itself in how you position your grip – which is, my lord, entirely too tight and limiting when the shaft should slide. Your footwork, intriguingly, needs very little correction. The week after that, I will begin to teach you how to use that weapon as a true weapon, and we will test your skills on some mannered beasts. In two months, if you progress with as much speed as you have shown this week, you and I will spar."

"So…I'm better than you thought I would be."

Basch ignored that. "I have heard of blind men of skill, sword and spear; you have an edge that you can always use one of that library of technicks to target your foe; you have an edge that you have fought before, blinded, that you have lived like this so long. If you truly wish to fight without technical supplement, then you will accommodate both my pace and my method of instruction."

"Certainly," Ffamran said, and restrained himself from further comment on the qualities of Basch's pace and method. "That is all I wanted to know, Basch, that this game was going somewhere."

"I'm going inside," Basch said, "because it's too hot for this and I recall an offer involving shade and a glass of wine."

When they at last took to the hunt in the field, Ffamran took his gun also. It was more for familiarity than any other, for with Basch at his side it was more likely the man would step forward with his sword before Ffamran would need to draw the gun.

The dogs kept close pace by Ffamran's side as he walked, for sighting rather than coursing, and Basch let them lead. It was the terrain that ever and always proved more daunting than the beasts Ffamran encountered, for the dogs would sound at the sight of that latter and Basch would offer further verbal direction, but the terrain's minute rise and fall was unnoticed by either. He would never be able to move with speed, though he pretended enough surety that by now the performance was nearly a truth.

The adrenaline of fighting like this was unlike anything in Ffamran's experience. He was blind, no spell to supplement, only his own senses for definition. He was truly, truly blind, yet under the heightened edge of his racing heart, he could hear every sound as though it sat in a grid for him to map, to source, to strike. The sound of a wolf's jaw opening, that wet fleshy sound, told Ffamran where the throat was at which to slash or crush; the flick of a coeurl's snapping tail told him where precisely to hamstring the creature. The very sound of his own weapon connecting was ever and always disproportionately loud, as though he struck at a hollow drum to break it; to follow came the sharp metallic rise of blood, the stink of ruptured bowel, of death.

In the aftermath of every death, Ffamran felt the sparkle of sweat, hot and chill, that rippling surge of uncertainty. Was he still alive, and unharmed? Did he just dream himself well and walking? Without the ability to sight his own extremities, he could not know the extent to which the world imposed itself upon him, so he felt it instead. The wet earth yielded beneath his weight, the wind curled about his height, the spark of myst and mysticism set the hair on his nape to lift as the beast's dead body surrendered itself back to the elements.

"Head back to the _Strahl_ , my lord, it's near sunset and soon I will be useless a-field."

And that, a reminder, for Ffamran surely knew such from the shift in the heat of the air, the direction of the sun's burn across his face. He turned, walked five paces, and then stopped to laugh and say –

"Take my arm and lead, will you? I have no idea where we are any more."

Vaan and Penelo knew to leave them alone when they went on a hunt, that they returned to the _Strahl_ to find the camp set up, a crackle of flame for Basch preferred that natural fuel to the Mooglemade stoves, and the air otherwise clear and empty of Vaan's vibrant complaint. At leisure, Ffamran stretched to pillow his head on his forearms and bury his bare feet in the grass. He listened as Basch set the dogs to guard, across the other side of the fire where they would sit to not disturb him as he cooked. That latter effort smelled good enough Ffamran could not stir himself to catalogue the varied scents that made the whole complete.

Ffamran must have drifted off, for he woke to the touch of a knuckle along his cheek.

"It's a bad habit, lying around with your eyes closed."

At the subdued exasperation there Ffamran had to laugh. He sat up and reached to find Basch's bare shoulder, surprising only for that bareness. He walked his fingers along that rippled terrain to find Basch's spine, rubbing that ridged line until somewhat of the stiffness left the man.

Basch's silence felt – fraught, that Ffamran walked his fingers down further, to find the tension across his lower back. He was kneeling, Ffamran felt, and with a slight motion drew the man to lie against him, down, atop him. It was strange how different Basch's flesh could prove to his brother's, for Ffamran could never tolerate Noah's proximity so. The man had been too heavy.

Basch's knee slid between his thighs, so Ffamran wrapped one leg about Basch's, to—

"Are you _naked_?"

"It seemed opportune."

"Yes, but already? Shouldn't we eat first?"

Basch guided Ffamran's wrist, sliding that touch along his flank. "You keep your own preparations for this discreet enough that I cannot say what order is preferred." He would not relinquish his hold on Ffamran's wrist, and steered that touch between his thighs. "I will be guided by you, in this."

He was – slick, already. He prepared, and plotted; Basch had _planned_ this that no convenient excuse or apology would disrupt as it had before. Basch had – wanted this, Ffamran knew, had made motions towards such a thing with how he turned in bed, the way his kisses had wandered lower of late, but this, now: Ffamran could not ignore this.

"Ah," Ffamran said, and stroked without pushing, "I would say it is dependent on which hunger is the greater."

The crackle of that blaze; the shrill of some distant insect singing an asymmetrical rhythm; Ffamran could not think for the excess of noise, the feel of Basch's hardness against his stomach, that muscle at his fingertips. Basch set one knee to the grass at Ffamran's side, and pushed back, with a soft sound –

Ffamran pulled his hand away, scarce knowing why. "Why now? Do you do this because you think I want it, or because you want it?"

"I truly can't pretend to know what you want," Basch said, "what will keep you when you fight so for your freedom, what will happen when you win it. I can't know what you want, so know that I offer everything."

Ffamran could not deny the ache in that voice, the want there.

It would prove difficult, for Ffamran could not get as hard as he could for the other. Basch disengaged and kissed him then; throat, as he unlaced shirt; navel, as he unlaced pants; cock, yet to touch only the very tip with a narrowed tongue. Such a scant touch, yet Ffamran felt it as a sudden tightening of his entire skin, his breath shuddering. The remnant wet was cold there, like the night took on that kiss and extended it, to make him painfully conscious of his own heat.

Basch applied himself then, with small motion and more tongue than total depth; Ffamran arched for it regardless, lost on that stroking sensation. Oh, and when Basch _drew_ at last, and sucked, and licked and kissed and blew cold air and warm, Ffamran thought he had shivered himself out of his skin and into the sky, for he could no longer feel the grass under his back, acknowledge anything but that which lavished him so.

"My knees or my back, my lord?"

"Which do you want?"

"On my back," Basch said, and licked the length of Ffamran's cock from root to tip that Ffamran's whole body surrendered to a shudder from that single motion. "Oh, gods, I want to see your face when you do this."

"Then," Ffamran tried, soundless, and cleared his throat to try again. "Then, I insist on your knees, Basch, for surely you should not be granted your every want in one night. Save somewhat for the morrow, that I do not bore you. That is," Ffamran added, hesitant, "if you wanted to do such a thing ever again."

And the answer to that unspoken question would surely be a yes, for Basch turned then, that Ffamran felt the curve of his spine and the map of scars across it, to trail and feel the position of hands and arms and shoulders, the spread of knees and calves and thighs. Ffamran found his way between, and then, pressed against the tense muscle of Basch's light-furred thigh, he faltered.

Despite the hard heat of his cock, held in one hand; despite finding Basch's flesh with the other, despite that slick, Ffamran found only embarrassment for a time long enough to nearly kill all desire, for Basch had to reach back to direct him. Ffamran leaned to press his belly to Basch's back and reached instead for Basch's cock, stroking that familiar throbbing hardness for the action kept him hard. He could not erase the thought of the open sky above them, the dirt and grass beneath his knees, the air curling on his own bare back. The earth, Ffamran tried to convince himself, would indeed not rebel for such an act; he set himself and pushed.

When Basch yielded with a tasteless and entirely unappealing curse, Ffamran clutched then, at Basch's hips, his thighs, every bit of flesh he could touch – could touch for he could not _see_ – that. He forked fingers about that hard heat, where they joined—

Ffamran pressed his thumbs to either side there, his fingers fanned across the taut muscle of Basch's behind, and waited for debilitating want to subside that he would not shame himself so soon. His touch made it better and worse. He could feel his own hardness slide against that tight flesh as both hardness and slide; he _knew_ his motion. Yet, when he pushed to part with his palms to add to that strain about him, he had to shiver and halt his slow motion, for the world sought to swallow him, whole and surrendered.

"Gods, Ffamran," Basch said, so desperate that his words sounded forced with the motion, involuntary, every muscle tense and trembling, "let this be _enough_."

Ffamran did not last after that exclamation, though he missed his final forceful stroke for the unexpected recoil rippling through Basch's flesh as well as his own. His hands were still about where they joined that he felt his spill scatter across his knuckles. He traced the aftermath to feel the distinct difference he had left in Basch's flesh, open and easy now where Ffamran had encountered such resistance prior. Basch grunted for the touch, and permitted it only for a short time. He rolled to pull Ffamran close, and there Ffamran felt Basch's cock fall soft and wet against his own stomach. A good feeling, that, for despite the seeming of the situation Ffamran had no assurance that Basch sated his own want before Ffamran had found his.

He put his lips to Basch's neck. The pulse there fluttered, an insect's speeding wingbeat; Ffamran's own breath was short and desperate, still, that he could not breathe even a slight courtesy for the act.

"That surely was not the first time you have taken a man so, surrounded by those who desires matched yours?"

"No," Ffamran murmured, "but the first time it was offered, and sober, and stripped of my whining as precursor. Surely that was not the first time you have taken a man so, with your added years however so you did not seek such a thing."

"No," said Basch, his voice a lazy rumble against Ffamran's cheek, "but the first time without force masquerading as desire, or humiliation as intent, or shame as aftermath."

Nalbina, Ffamran thought, and would not speak such a thing. Basch never spoken of it, and Ffamran could not ask him for the extent of remorse Basch's scarred back engendered in him. Penelo had been the one to provide knowledge, for she had tended those lingering wounds that Fran's magicks could not cure for the lack of cleanliness. Even Vaan had spoken of the depth of debasement in which they had discovered Basch, and freed him from only to have the man resume another kind of captivity. Had Ffamran known such things on meeting Basch, back in Archades, he doubted events would have panned differently between them simply for the state of his own self-absorption.

" _I_ am ashamed," Ffamran said, "you have no need to be."

"Oh, Ffamran, don't be—"

"I am still entirely out of breath. That was exhausting, man."

The spill of Basch's hair formed a veil about Ffamran's upturned face, a disruption against the shift of air that held the warmth between their lips. Ffamran could not contemplate what Noah might have looked like with long hair. It did not, that kiss decided him, _matter_.

"And that was scarcely even half the force you often desire. I hope you now have some appreciation for the efforts you demand of others."

"I do," Ffamran said, "but only you would think to turn such an offering into some form of instruction."

Basch's hand touched his cheek, the pads of firm fingertips, the ridge of callus across the palms. Ffamran leaned into that touch. He could feel, could hear the roughness of Basch's hand rasp against his stubble.

"You forgot to shave me this morning, we left so early. What do you think, shall I grow it?"

"However you malign my sense of style, consider my vote a resounding no. Though, perhaps, I will leave you a line of fur, here—" his fingernail traced a sharp line parallel to one cheekbone, and on the other side, "—and here, for you have the cheekbones to wear that well."

"Here I was, picturing myself with the great Landisian chin curtain Noah was wont to grow on occasion, and instead you suggest sideburns."

Basch hesitated, voice and touch both. "Ffamran, if you can strike at a target via one of numerous methods, surely you can shave yourself?"

"I can." Ffamran pressed his grin into the palm of Basch's hand. "It never feels natural. I was not of an age to shave before I lost my sight, that the act always feels like a child playacting to be as his older brothers. I can do it, and have done, but it takes twice as long for I have to complete the act, feel for every part I missed, and go again. Yet I could do it myself," Ffamran touched his tongue to that skin, to taste salt and scent and Basch, "but that I want you to do it."

"Ah," Basch said, and Ffamran heard the grin, subdued. "Then that will have to be reason enough, my lord."

On the morrow they rose early from their blankets aboard the _Strahl_ , separate for the sake of those narrow military bunks, only to find Vaan and Penelo all ready for flight and impatient enough they did not want to wait for breakfast. Return to Balfonheim had them discover Fran and Nono in the parlor, lost in conversation with Tello regarding the _Strahl_ 's sister. Even as they stepped up the front verandah's rise, Ffamran could hear an unusual strain in Fran's otherwise consistent voice.

"She has her belongings with her," Basch murmured, low, as they stepped through the door.

"Word from Margrace," Ffamran whispered back, before Fran had said anything – and lamentably, he proved right.

"All I have," Fran elaborated, after their greetings, "a letter delivering word from the court of Rozzaria that Al-Cid has had a change of heart from his unnatural and unproductive ways, and that he has again embraced the duties and dictates required by the privilege of having been birthed with the blood of Margrace royal in his veins."

"Sounds much unlike him," Ffamran said, "is the handwriting his?"

"It sounds more like him than you will know, young Ffamran." Fran's voice sounded a reprimand. "You have often reproached him for his willingness to run from that so-called duty of birth. His conversations, when maudlin, would often turn to you for the role you played, a representative of true filial duty in the face of all obstruction."

"I am no inspiration for his fickleness," Ffamran said, taken aback.

"Regardless," Fran said, "I am not here to blame you for that strange inversion of your lives, noble to free man and free man to noble. I would also have no concern for that missive, for the very fact that Margrace has discussed such a thing with me before. Yet, two things raise my concern where otherwise I would offer acceptance."

"Unnatural," Ffamran said, suddenly. "The word. I cannot see him using it."

"My first concern," Fran said. "Yes. I have never forced a man to do other than his nature, for the reason that I have left my own homeland was for such a fickleness bred in me. I am what the world makes of me that I will not seek to sway another. That word 'unnatural', it is a wrongness that Margrace would never use to describe what we shared."

"And the other?" Basch asked.

"That if he were so set on no longer running," Fran said, simply, "he would have faced me to tell me, for politeness is ever his way and he knows I would not have sought to sway him."

Ffamran could not wait for her to ask, for he could not think to make Fran a penitent when she had already done so much for his own comfort. "Thus you come to us for a multiplicity of reasons, also our friendship I do hope. Of course, Fran, you must take the _Strahl_. Permit Basch half a day that he can pack and send missives to the court of Rozzaria. It is well time that Balfonheim's eccentric lord visits his closest civilised neighbour. The provincial nature of celebrations here does wear on my nerves. House Margrace will bend themselves backwards to ensure my stay is filled with the utmost of comforts. While their eyes are so downcast, we will find your very own Margrace, Fran, and ensure that his will is his own."

Basch protested, not unexpectedly. "Ffamran, you should not—"

"Whyever not?" Ffamran grinned into the blankness before him, for the pained wariness of Basch's tone seemed more a default response now than a true protest. "Basch fon Ronsenburg once put his stamp on a mark to kidnap Archadian nobility – a skypirate's stamp. Considering the dividends from that first act, it is not so strange he would want to kidnap himself more nobility. Likewise Fran. And as for I, well, I am notably unconventional, so what matter if I fly the breadth of Ivalice and back simply to sample a breath of Rozzarian air?"

"Thank you," Fran said, "thank you, Ffamran. This is more than I had expected."

"I have never enjoyed the concept of debt," Ffamran said, "and I never thought I could pay back mine to you. You have my gratitude for providing me the opportunity to demonstrate recompense."

"You great Archadian liar," Basch said, accusing, "you're going to enjoy this."

"Immensely," Ffamran admitted. "Margrace will never live this down, if a blind Archadian rescues him from his evil brothers' clutches. I can only hope to also find him drunk and debilitated, and possibly singing lewd songs to the sky."

There were preparations to be completed, for Rozzaria had not the extent of freedom that Balfonheim entertained. Clothing for the heat, to begin with, though Penelo mourned for the veil that would keep her hair and face constricted until she realized that such would allow Fran her disguise. Weaponry, sly and proud alike, livery for Vaan that he could keep attendance in the palace instead of being consigned to the aerodrome for the evident lack in his clothing . Ffamran commissioned armour for Basch in his house colours of midnight and gold, and with an aesthetic curl atop the functional bent that Basch assured him he looked a well-paid bodyguard instead of a lover, for Rozzaria had never had much allowance for a Hume's range of deviance. The last preparation Basch settled upon Ffamran's features when they were aboard the _Strahl_.

Ffamran reached up and felt, traced, the shape, the coolness, the curve.

"Glasses?" he asked. "I know to expect some forgetfulness in your old age, Basch, but you do realize I'm blind?"

"They are opaque," Basch said, pained, as Penelo and Vaan stifled their laughter. "Such a thing – if less opaque – is common in Rozzaria for the brilliance of the day's sun rivals that of Dalmasca. The very opaqueness of these marks you as blind immediately."

"And I would want to do that—"

"You do," Basch said, firmly, "that I can touch you to guide without risk of being assaulted or insulted, and that you make evident what the Rozzarians may assume is your weakness. They will not think you can fight, and a surprise weapon is always a good weapon."

"As you wish," Ffamran said, and sought to settle those on the bridge of his nose. The arms would be pushing his ears out, he knew, those latter already prominent enough that his first distaste for the things had been mostly for that point. "Do they look well? The glasses I wore as a youth made me look a scholar's bastard son by an ill-bred whore."

"Ffamran," Basch said, "when you are not entertaining yourself as a hunter, a tactician, an engineer, a designer, a fighter, an astrologer, a king, a politician or a courtier, you very much _are_ a scholar, and thus they suit you well enough."

"Yes," Ffamran said, "but do they suit a skypirate, Basch?"

Fingers stroked along his cheek, affectionate, too briefly.

"Margrace wore them to cut the glare of the horizon, and, regardless of what face Vaan pulls at me for this current display of excessive and despised domesticity, I will say they look far more comely on you than they ever did on him."

When the _Strahl_ engaged to idle herself warm, it was with Vaan and Fran at the helm, Penelo and Nono in the engine room, Ffamran behind Fran and Basch beside him.

It could not be enough, Ffamran thought, what Basch offered; no one person could offer 'enough' when Ffamran wanted the impossible, his sight back and his life on the path it should have taken before that blinding. Yet Basch should hold no secret fear of rejection, for Ffamran could not foresee a reason to turn aside the one man who wanted to give him everything. And this, flying on a whim, Basch at his side, Fran at the helm, the children eager and wanting his word – this was so close to 'enough' that Ffamran could almost taste it. This was almost _right_ , as right as it could be without he at the helm of the ship.

"Enough idling," Ffamran said. "Take us to the skies, Fran."

.

  



End file.
